


Sons of Electra

by Word_Devourer



Category: Blood of Zeus (Cartoon)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Rewrite, Canon-Typical Violence, Further tags as story progresses, Gen, my world now
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:54:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 25,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27737971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Word_Devourer/pseuds/Word_Devourer
Summary: One step to the side of a story once told, Electra rejects Zeus the moment she realizes his identity.  Zeus makes a wager with Hera to stay her wrath.  In subtle ways, the world is different, and the fates laugh at the myriad ways that little snags can change the whole design.--Sometimes fanfiction is a love letter to the original canon, sometimes it’s just that one telegram that says “Fuck you.  Strongly worded letter to follow”.-Mary P. Sue, 10 September 2018
Comments: 59
Kudos: 67





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There's no denying this show was beautiful, nor the characters in it; seriously, there are proportionally a *massive* number of self-insert fics designed around banging some of these gods. Yet, somehow, it feels like there's something in need of writing here.
> 
> Before we get started, a big thanks to my Anonymous Benefactor, who took the steps of creating a whole document dedicated to modifying the original story and characters. You're the real MVP here, but I feel obligated to say that my existing track record suggests that this story could very easily go horribly off the rails.

The sun was almost set. A breeze rustled in the grass. Two figures ran, the fear of death burning bright within them.

They, whatever they were, were fast, too fast to be human, yet they were not animal, either. Branches snapped, pushed aside not by bulk, but by hands.

They left a trail, desperate, and visible to even the most novice of trackers, and the three that followed it were no novices. Even on horseback, even in the darkness, the path before them was as plain as if it were midday.

They would catch them, and they would kill them.

\--

Bastard.

The word clung to him.

He couldn’t rid himself of it, any more than he could change his face, because it was the truth. When someone in town called out ‘Bastard’ they meant him, as surely as if they’d called for Heron.

 _More_ surely, perhaps. It often seemed as if some of them didn’t _know_ his real name.

Well, this _Bastard_ was done working for the day. He wrapped the opening of the bag around one hand, and stood.

The cave was never well lit, and he had neither the time nor the resources to make it so, but it was still only marginally brighter than the world outside.

He pulled in a deep breath, hefted the sack of ore over one shoulder, and started for town.

He stepped out from the cave, and into the free air. He pulled in a deep breath, hefted the sack of ore over his shoulder, and started for town.

Now, by the heft of it, and the particular way it had broken under the pick, this load had to be worth, what, 4 drachmae? Of course, they wouldn’t _offer_ him 4 drachmae, so call it 3. If the right people were in the right moods, that would be at least… a day? Two days of food?

The problem, of course, was that the blacksmith probably wouldn’t need anything further from him for at _least_ three days.

Something prickled at the corner of his mind, and he froze. A rustle in the bushes?

He laid the bag down as quietly as he could, and in a single smooth motion, pulled the bow from his shoulder, and strung it.

It had barely been a rustle, but… Yes… There, in the bushes, he could just make out something moving. By the size, the shape…

He loosed an arrow.

There was shudder, a jump cut short, and…

He pulled the brush aside.

A rabbit.

Three drachmae worth of ore, and a rabbit… they could stretch that for at least two days, surely, even _if_ Elias came by.

He strung up the rabbit, and hung it from his shoulder, now quite near to the town.

The gate was still open but wouldn’t be for much longer; he’d be best suited to hurry.

“Evening, _Bastard,_ ” said the gate guard, and chuckled, slouching against the wall.

Heron fingers flexed at his side, but he said nothing.

Most people still in the market paid him no heed, thankfully, and soon he stood at a table marked with the insignia of a smith.

He laid the ore out, and the man looked up at him from where he sat.

A second passed, as the man impassively examined the lumps of ore.

“Two drachmae.”

Heron’s expression hardened.

“It’s worth at least 4.”

“And I’m offering you 2,” said the man, almost bored, “If you don’t want to like it, then by all means, go home empty-handed. I’ll be up in a few days to take it once you starve.”

“Three.”

_“Two.”_

Heron’s hands curled to fists. It would be _so easy_ to make him pay properly. Four drachmae, maybe even a few extra for all the times he’d underpaid him.

He let his fingers fall loose again. 

If he did that, the guards, the whole town, would come after him; he could fight, but they’d hurt him badly, perhaps kill him. And then, the next time they got it in their heads that his mother was a witch, there would be nothing to stop them from…

“Two,” he said, and pushed the lumps a bit closer.

“Good,” said the man simply, and placed the coins down.

He took them.

With luck, his mother would be almost done for the day. That would be an extra drachma. Then, if Iola was vending vegetables, then maybe there would enough left over for…

“Heron?”

He straightened, instantly.

“Mother?” he said, turning.

And there she was, thin from hunger, clearly tired from the work she’d been doing, but still smiling gently.

“How did it go, Heron?”

“I…” he showed her the coins.

“Only two?” she said, expression dropping.

“I… I know. It was that or nothing; who else would I sell it to?”

She nodded, slowly, and then sighed. “I understand. Then we’ll simply have to work with what we have.”

He nodded, trying to offer her a smile, but he knew it looked at false as it felt.

“Well,” she said, straightening up, and taking a deep breath, “let’s see what we can-

There was a commotion, then, and, as they turned, firelight outside the gates, the glow visible from over the walls.

They looked at each other,

The street cleared, and, in the torchlight, Heron saw three mounted warriors ride forward, a trio of women in crimson robes and bronze armor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So far, we've made only small modifications. Next chapter, things get just a hair more interesting.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A trio of hunters come, seeking a monster.  
> Heron and Electra offer assistance to an old friend, and Heron goes to fetch some water.

“I am Archon Alexia, in pursuit of a Daemon,” said the woman in front, tone even and certain, “as we chased it, it escaped into this town. If you have any information, we need to know, now.”

There was an overwhelming silence, and, eventually, one man stepped forward, tentatively raising a hand.

“What… What is a Daemon?”

The woman in the front turned to look at him. She reached to her side, and pulled forth… A head. A human… No, it couldn’t be a human. No human looked like that, ash grey, like coal after a fire, shot with veins of unnatural red. And the eyes… He could hardly see in this light, at this distance, but the eyes were a dull, burning red as well.

The crowd recoiled, some murmuring in disgust, others in fear.

“ _This_ is a Daemon,” said Alexia. “But if it’s here, it will take the form of someone you have never met before. It will try to avoid your attention, to keep separate from you. Have you seen anyone matching that description?”

There was an uncertain shuffling of feet, but nobody seemed to have anything to say.

“Then we will continue our search. Get inside. It will not be merciful if it comes upon you.”

And the horses began to advance again, slowly this time, and the crowd parted further to give them room.

\--

At the sight of advancing soldiers, Electra had felt a momentary stab of panic in her chest, but these hunters wanted nothing with her, or with her son. She let out a breath. A Daemon, whatever it was, could surely be handled, and if these women were half as capable as their bearing suggested, then surely it would not escape their attention for long.

“Come now, Heron,” she said, “night is falling. Better we go home now. We can return for food in the morning.”

He nodded, and they began to walk, but they only made it a few steps before Heron froze in place.

“Do you hear that?”

She did. A low groaning, coming from an old trench, where water had once flowed, just below view.

Heron nudged his bow from his shoulder, strung it, and nocked an arrow.

“Be careful,” she said.

They approached, slowly, and then, all at once, Heron lunged forward, string pulled back, and… After a second, he pulled back from the arrow, let the string go loose again.

“Elias,” he said.

“Ah,” came a familiar voice from the ditch, “hello, Heron. I don’t suppose I could prevail upon you to help an old man up, could I?”

Heron unstrung his bow, and as she stepped forward, there, sure enough, was Elias. He was on his back at the bottom of the ditch, with a nasty gash on his leg.

“What happened to you,” said Heron, jumping down, pulling him upright with barely an effort.

Elias laughed, clearly abashed. “I slipped, cut my leg on a jagged stone, I think.” He sighed. “My apologies for… Prevailing upon you.”

She knelt, as Heron helped him back up to the street. The wound seemed manageable, but…

“That should be washed,” she said, “Heron?”

He nodded, and turned, walking away at a brisk pace.

\--

Elias. His mother had always said he was a good luck charm; he was old, and always seemed to be getting injured, showing up for meals, but… Whenever he showed up, it always felt as if the next day would be a good one; the deer wouldn’t spook when he missed the first shot, or he’d find a plentiful vein of ore, or the leak in the roof, when he finally checked it, would have already been stuffed by a bit of dislodged thatch.

Perhaps it was simply superstition, or perhaps some halfway benevolent god was offering recompense for helping an old man when he needed it. Whatever the case, even injured as he was, Heron was glad to see him; some bit of him would have itched at the idea of leaving his mother undefended when there was a dangerous creature around, but with Elias… Somehow, the idea seemed unlikely.

Still, the sooner he could return with the water, the more comfortable he would feel. Heron sighed, stopping where the water let out before flowing out to the pool below. It had a habit of gushing uncontrollably in the wet months, and barely flowing at all in the hot months, but at least it was clean, and nobody stopped them from using it, even if they gave them dirty looks.

He stopped.

There were always jugs around the fountain, but right now… One had fallen, shattered against the ground, and it had been full at the time, a puddle of water spreading around it.

The sight made his skin prickle. Any other day, he would have simply taken his water and left, worried that the townspeople blame him for the damage, but tonight, something felt wrong.

He glanced around him. The area was deserted. That was no surprise, at this time of night; most people would already have taken any water they needed for the day, but…

He knelt, unable to shake the feeling that he was being watched; there were no houses, no windows, but still, that same maddening feeling.

He filled the jug, unable to stop glancing behind him. Still, nobody there, but…

No. No, there was something in the pool. There, at the edge, he could just make out… A woman, lying halfway out of it, at the very edge.

He felt himself go cold; she was still, in a way that she shouldn’t have been.

He put down the jug, and glancing around once more, he started down the steps.

Every step closer, the sensation of something _wrong_ grew in his stomach. Something about how she was lying, the way he couldn’t quite see…

And then, he was close enough that there could be no doubt.

She was dead. Living people didn’t stop at the waist.

He knelt down.

_He… He knew her. Iola. She hadn’t been kind to them, by any stretch, but she’d offered them half-decent prices when they’d bought from her._

He stared, something in the sight not quite fitting in his mind, impossible in a way that he didn’t fully understand.

Then, there was a foot in his back, and he was launched forward, his vision blurring at the suddenness with which he hit the water.

He flailed, trying to find the bottom, find the air, but, just as he thought he could see which way was up, see the stars above, there are a shift in the water, a figure above him, almost human, but… Not.

He reached out, trying to grab onto something, but he was shaken, disoriented, and then, there was a hand clenching at his throat.

_There was red in the figure’s eyes, burning lines of it across one arm._

Heron, half-choked, already growing dizzy, grabbed hold of the arm, rolled back, and kicked out with one foot. It slammed into the figure’s- the _Daemon’s_ chest, launching him back, and over.

Heron came up, gasping for air. 

Burning red eyes, ash-grey skin, and pure white hair.

 _“Convert or die,”_ growled the Daemon, already advancing.

Heron dropped, hands coming up.

“Shut up,” he said, and, as he charged, the world faded into the familiar blur of a fistfight.

The Daemon bore no weapons, but it moved with an unnatural speed, even thigh-deep in water, and its right arm, when it was still long enough to see, seemed to be made of something sterner than flesh.

Heron had grown up fighting when he was outnumbered, but this _thing_ was something else entirely. He would land a hit, and it would shrug it off, responding with a punch that would put a mule’s kick to shame. He would push forward, and it would stay still. He would back away, and it would advance almost instantly.

_He was bleeding now; his lungs stabbed with pain, and his legs were growing heavy. He could taste blood in his mouth, one lip almost numb were the Daemon had landed a glancing blow._

_He’d had worse._

He rammed it with his shoulder, and, ignoring the way it flailed at his back, the jagged cut that its craggy arm left, the bruises he would surely have tomorrow, he flung it back, out of the pool, and it slammed into the pillar that had once held up a pavilion.

The pillar _cracked,_ chunks of marble falling loose, and, as the Daemon hit the ground, he almost thought it would not stand up.

It was too much to hope. By the time he realized the thing was standing, the fallen boulder was already in flight, and he twisted, trying to jump aside in time.

He only partially succeeded, the lump of marble spinning him, sending him flying back out of the pool with the force of its impact.

_He could hear something clattering against the cobbles. Something familiar._

He fell against the steps, and tried to force himself upright, but his right arm refused to move. With his left, he managed to turn himself over, and the Daemon was almost upon him.

He raised the arm that still listened, and tried to force himself upright, but he knew, even as he did so, that he couldn’t win.

The Daemon leapt, and-

There was a blur of red and bronze, and the Daemon’s leap was cut short by a spear through its chest. The spear dropped, stabbing through the stone of the square, and the horse came to a halt.

The rider dismounted, practically jumping from the saddle.

Heron, for an instant, didn’t understand her hurry. And then the Daemon grabbed at the spear and began to pull itself up, leaving a trail of blood along the shaft of the weapon as it pulled itself free.

She stepped forward, a pair of blades in her hands, and slashed out.

The first slashes came for the Daemon’s hands, and glanced off that strange, stony skin.

She pulled back to strike again, but the Daemon was high enough, now, and the spear bent, and tore loose from the ground.

Impaled, it seemed undaunted by the pair of blades, and rushed forward.

Heron stared, as, despite her pair of blades, and the fact that the Daemon was _impaled,_ it still put up a fight.

_If that thing did to her what it had done to him, then even if both of them fought it at once, they would lose._

Jolted to action by the thought, he twitched, managing to sit up, and leaned forward, trying to get his feet underneath him. His right arm still stabbed with pain, but perhaps one good hit to this thing’s back could knock it out, or at least distract it long enough for _her_ to kill it.

He staggered upright, to the sight of blood splattering on the ground. Alexia’s blades were finally finding purchase, the fight, twisting around, making the Daemon’s wounds visible. There was a new shade of red painting its face, blood visible at its chest, soaking into its shirt.

The Daemon seemed almost unperturbed by its wounds, still bashing away the blades with one arm, trying to find openings with the other.

Heron staggered forward, bringing his good arm up, managing to twist the elbow of the other, as if he truly could fight.

The Daemon’s fist managed to make contact with the woman’s armor, and she stepped back, seeming only to keep her feet with exceptional dexterity. The blades shifted, defensive, as it advanced.

Heron stepped forward, jabbing with his remaining hand.

The Daemon, seeming only now to notice him, stepped back. The woman’s blades shifted again as she advanced to his side.

He went left, she went right.

The Daemon retreated, glancing back and forth between them. Then, suddenly, it lashed out, a ferocious blow, but sloppy, and as the two of them dodged back, it was running, retreating, inhuman in its speed.

Barely hesitating, the woman, _(Alexia?)_ whistled, and her horse cantered over.

She looked at him, and frowned.

“Are your wounds serious?”

“My arm won’t move.”

She barely glanced at it, already mounting the horse, and nodded. “Dislocated. Try not to move it too much; it will need treatment that I don’t have time to offer you, now.”

And then she was away, already chasing her quarry.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alexia does an execution

Heron should have returned by now, and that, more than anything else, worried Electra; he knew what he was to do, and if he hadn’t returned…

“I’m sure he’s fine,” said Elias, as if he had heard her thoughts, “There’s a great deal of fuss, but he knows how to handle himself.”

“Still,” she said, “we should go to meet him.”

Elias nodded. “Help me up?”

She took his arm, and pulled him upright. They started towards the fountain.

The streets, despite the woman’s orders, were still anything but clear; too many people had business to finish, still had stalls to close up for the night. The two women still patrolling the streets made no particular decrees on the issue, simply slipping through the crowd with keen eyes and swords drawn.

_“Mother.”_

She turned, and there was Heron, alive, and carrying the water, but… His face was bloodied and bruising, and the way he was holding his arm…

 _“What happened?_ ”

“The Daemon, the one they’re looking for. My arm…”

“You met it,” she said, and it wasn’t a question, “You _fought it._ We need to tell them.”

 _“They know,”_ he said, “Alexia, their leader, she was there. She… She saved my life.”

Electra, for a moment, _stared,_ as the words sank into her mind.

_Saved his life. He could have died, and now he was bleeding and bruised, and… He was still carrying the water._

Had she not been currently supporting Elias, she would have wrapped him in a hug, but… There would be time enough for it later.

She shook her head, trying to clear it of a thousand images of her son dying. 

“Elias, can you hold the water?”

“I have a free arm,” he said, taking hold of the jug as Heron passed it over, pressing it into his side.

“Try to hold your arm steady,” she said to Heron, “moving it will only make it worse.”

He nodded.

They needed to get home; if they did that, she could work on his arm, clean Elias’ wound.

And what would they do for food?

She shook her head. _They’d worry about it tomorrow._

\--

Kore and Xanthe hadn’t reported seeing anything, which was good; if she was right, there would only be one more Daemon, and the sight of another would have been dangerous news.

 _Wounds across the chest, a hole through the stomach_ she’d said, _and a slash across the cheek._

And here…

Hooded, worried, but not in the same way as the other people of this town.

She slipped in ahead of him, looking side to side, but carefully not quite noticing him.

_If she was right, he’d be on guard, at first, but after a few seconds…_

She turned, and by the time he realized she was coming, she had him up against a wall.

The man looked back at her, panic in his eyes, and she searched his face for…

There was no wound, no blood, but just where she’d cut the Daemon, a pale, silver scar.

He had his hands up, panicking, but- She headbutted him, and he groaned, sinking to his knees.

She knelt, barely noticing the gasps of the crowd around her, and pulled his shirt up.

She didn’t smile at the sight of the wounds, still unhealed, but she nodded in satisfaction. And there, at his waist, a rolled-up sheet of paper.

“Kore! Xanthe! I have him. Bring the chains.”

\--

Heron, had he been able to, would have gladly helped Elias, and let his mother carry the water, but his arm wouldn’t allow it.

He sighed, as they made their way towards the northern gate. Hopefully, _hopefully,_ they would make it there, before… Before…

There was a crowd gathered in the square.

“You may have heard rumors,” called Alexia, “that an army is coming from the east. These rumors are true, but they do not capture the whole of it.” This caused a stir.

They were growing quite close, now, and Heron could just make out the sight of a chained figure, the glow of a brazier.

“I said I was looking for a Daemon,” continued Alexia, “a deadly monster, stronger, and faster than any human. And what descends upon you will be an army of them.”

The words caused murmurs of conversation, worried looks.

“Perhaps,” she said, gripping an iron that was sitting in the coals, “you do not believe me. I cannot blame you. What you see before you seems an ordinary man. But fire will show his true form.”

“Wait!” cried the man, seeming only now to understand what she intended, but Alexia was already stabbing out.

Heron couldn’t hear the sizzle of flesh at this distance, but he could hear the man cry out, convulsing in pain. And then, the sound shifted, layering upon itself, suddenly less human, and more…

The man’s skin… _the Daemon’s_ skin, cracked, shifted, and fell away, and then, in an instant, there he was again. The same one as before. He pulled, only held back by the two women with chains behind him, and for an instant, it almost seemed he would escape.

The crowd was panicking now, but the two women behind hauled at the chains, and he was held in place despite his efforts.

There was terrified silence for a moment, and the Daemon looked up, furious, but not seemingly scared.

_“You will convert,” he hissed at Alexia, “or you will die.”_

Alexia stepped forward, and began to speak, softly, pulling her sword free.

The Daemon seemed uninterested in listening to her.

“You will convert, or you will die!” he shouted, now directing the words at the crowd, “We are the strong, and we will-

His words were cut short by the sickening thump of his head hitting the ground.

 _“Recover the chains_ ,” spat Alexia, acid in her voice.

She looked up at the sky, where the moon was now quite high.

“There is no time to do more tonight,” she said, after a moment, to the crowd. “Return to your homes. Tomorrow, be ready to evacuate.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Late at night, Alexia tries to mull over the intelligence she recovered earlier, only to be interrupted by a stranger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is exciting to me in large part because it marks the first time we're not just rehashing the events of the show, which means we're finally getting a real chunk of the 'transformative' part of 'transformative work'

Alexia sat at the table, her food barely touched.

The paper she’d recovered from the scout detailed defenses, guard counts, places where faith in the local magistrates ran low and discontent ran high. Some were small towns, while others were anything but, and that was worrying. There was a map, too, with a jagged line, that curved oddly. It looked as if… It looked as if it was a path. But a path for _what?_ The army? If this was their path, then where did it _lead?_

“Only weak soldiers let themselves go hungry,” came a low voice.

She looked up, immediately rolling the paper up again.

There was a man down the table from her, looking at her with some cross between disapproval and boredom. His hair was long and black, kept in a loose braid. He wore a leather patch over his left eye.

By his bearing, he could have been an old soldier, but by his appearance, he could have been younger than she was.

“Then I thank you for reminding me,” she said, and, maintaining eye contact, took another bite of the lamb on her plate.

There was a long moment of silence, and then, to her surprise, he chuckled, and seemed almost to relax in his seat, reaching back for his own plate.

“It’s a map, isn’t it,” he said.

“Yes.”

“Your own?”

“It is mine now, yes.”

“And before that,” he said, “it belonged to the Daemon.”

It barely seemed a question.

“Why would you say that?”

“I don’t think you would still be worrying about it if you had found it before today.”

“No. I wouldn’t be.”

He nodded, taking another bite from his bread.

“You are a soldier too, aren’t you,” she said.

“Once,” he said, “but not anymore.”

She nodded.

“And what has brought you to this town?”

He paused, and then looked away, seeming to look at something that wasn’t there.

“There is a cloud here that never leaves. The sun never shines fully. I believe there is something of value hidden here.”

“You come seeking profit?”

“I do.”

“And now that the army is bearing down on it?”

He shrugged. “I will leave soon.”

He seemed uninterested in looking back at her, so she busied herself with her food again. He’d had a point earlier.

“I must say,” he said, eventually, “I was impressed, earlier. You killed him even before he finished speaking.”

She gave him a sidelong glance; his expression was impassive, but she would have wagered he was genuinely pleased.

“He would have said nothing of value.”

“Of course not. Had I been in your place, I would have done the same.”

And with that, he leaned back, seemingly satisfied.

Leaving Alexia…

Her issues with the map slipped back into her mind.

Well then.

Suppose…

Suppose it _was_ a proposed troop movement. Suppose… Suppose it was the path the whole army was to take.

Notes on locations; that was tactically valuable, of course. Why care so much about how they felt about their local leadership?

Alexia closed her eyes.

_‘Convert or die.’_

Alexia opened her eyes, and frowned.

This was a recruiting path. And it would begin here _._ Soon.

Then that would be another reason to evacuate the town as soon as possible. It would deprive them of new soldiers.

_And what was their ultimate goal?_

Had it simply been to take the land for themselves, she would have expected them to make for the capital, but the path ended near the sea.

She could go there herself, get ahead of them, but then what? What would she be looking for? She’d need advice, first.

Then she needed to make sure this town was evacuated, and then perhaps she could pay Chiron a visit.

She let out a slow breath.

No point in worrying on it further.

In a corner, Xanthe was busily getting drunk, rambling about something or other to Kore, who was listening with the same soft smile she always had. In a few minutes, perhaps, she’d need to make sure she cut herself off before she wound up hungover in the morning, but to an Amazon, it would take a great deal of the sort of drinks a town like this could provide.

For those who _weren’t_ Amazons, meanwhile…

“It’s a poor soldier who lets mere _drink_ incapacitate them,” she said.

He finished the mug, and gave her a sidelong glance. Then, to her surprise, he laughed aloud.

“If you think _this_ will get me drunk,” he said, “You’re mistaken.”

“Is that so?” she said, unable to keep a smile from her face. “Amazons are notoriously difficult to inebriate, yet my companion seems to be managing.”

“She is,” he agreed, and offered no further explanation.

Alexia’s brow furrowed.

This man…

“What is your name, stranger?”

He finished another mug.

“Seraphim,” he said.

“The Burning One,” she said. “a remarkable name.”

“I took it for myself,” he said, gesturing for another drink. “My home was burned to ash.”

A long silence.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

He nodded, slowly, half recognition, half a dismissal.

“That was long ago,” he said, standing. “Now it’s time I left. I’ve stayed here too long as it is.”

“The gates are locked.”

He chuckled.

“That won’t be an issue.”

And then he was walking out the door.

She stared after him.

If he was a god, his name was one she’d never heard of. If he was a human, then he lied very easily.

She scooped up the map.

_And if he were neither a human nor a god…_

She glanced back, but her companions were too far away, and too drunk, for her to reach them and explain in time.

She put a hand on the pommel of her sword, and slipped out after him.

The streets were otherwise deserted, and he was making directly for the east gate.

_East…_

Even late at night this town had few shadows to hide in, but Alexia gave it her best effort.

He walked with the even gait of a man who felt no fear.

_He carried no gear, nor any weapon. That should have meant he was less of a threat, but Alexia got the feeling it was the reverse._

Internally, Alexia cursed her own lack of caution in speaking to him; if her suspicion was correct… if he _was_ a Daemon…

At the east gate, now closed, Seraphim paused. He looked up, as if considering it.

“You followed me, I trust?” he said, loud enough to carry.

She didn’t respond, sliding her sword free.

He turned, and his eye scanned across the shadows, before catching on her. She cursed under her breath.

“Good,” he said, as she stepped out. “I would expect nothing less than suspicion.”

“You are a Daemon.”

He pulled the eyepatch almost casually loose, revealing, even in the darkness, a thick vertical scar.

“I am.”

“I can’t let you leave.”

“I’m afraid that isn’t your choice,” he said, chuckling. “But don’t worry. We will meet again soon, and when we do—” his voice shifted, subtly wrong, less human. There was a faint flicker of red in the eye that should have been missing, “there will be no mercy… But until then, sleep well.”

And then, even as her hand tightened at the hilt of her sword, ready to charge, he leapt, back and away, higher than any human could have managed. He twisted, catching hold of the sheer face of the wall, and then he was climbing, up and out of her reach, with the practiced motion of an expert.

Alexia’s mind whirred as he crested the wall, and slipped out of sight, but her horse was in the stable, and she would profit nothing by chasing an opponent who was faster than her through the night.

Seraphim was gone.

But he would return.

Soon.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heron and Electra return home with Elias in tow. However grim the night has been, however painful, at least for now, all is peaceful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those keeping score at home, this is the last chapter that was already completed when I got to it. Everything after this is coming out as I complete it.

“I need you to lie face down on the table,” said Electra.

Heron nodded, gingerly maneuvering himself onto the low table that was, in turns, used for eating and healing.

“Your other wounds, I can tend to in a moment,” she continued, retrieving a small cord and a heavy stone, “Though,” she glanced to one side, tying the cord around the stone, “I’ll have to tend to Elias first.”

“No need to be in any great hurry,” said Elias, though the gash at his leg still visibly pained him.

“Let your arm hang down,” said Electra, and Heron pushed himself up, and slowly slid his arm out from under him.

“Good,” she said, and, as he let the arm hang loose, she began to tie the cord around it, “try not to think about it. The worrying is always the worst of it.”

He’d heard the advice a dozen times before. He nodded.

“Elias,” he said, seizing on the first topic to his mind, “do you… Do you know anything about them? About… Daemons?”

Elias looked at him. “I do. What would you like to know?”

“What… _What are they_?”

Elias nodded, taking a sip from a waterskin. “They are… Monsters of blood, monstrous, but nothing unprecedented.”

Heron let out a cry of pain as his shoulder popped back into place.

 _“Good,”_ said Electra. “Now, you need to let it stay there so it settles back into place, you understand?”

He nodded, stifling a groan.

“What I mean to say is…” Elias sighed, “You’ve learned of how the gods ascended to power, haven’t you?”

“They killed their parents, the Titans.”

“And you’ve heard of the War of the Giants?”

“I…” Heron frowned. “I have heard of Giants, but I don’t know of any war.”

“As the last of the titans fell,” said Elias, “his body crashed into the ocean, and the blood that spilled from him, filled with malice against the gods, became the giants.”

Electra, now in the process of chopping up herbs, paused, for a moment, looking back.

“The giants,” continued Elias, “waged war on the gods, and born from such hate, they were just as fierce as their creators. More, perhaps.” His eyes were faraway, now, as if remembering the events himself. “Gods and giants fell alike, and the war showed no sign of ending. Until Zeus, in an act of desperation, offered mercy to a fallen giant, in exchange for its help in ending the war. With new help, the tides of battle turned.”

There was a long silence.

“And the Daemons?”

“Patience,” said Elias, chuckling. “After Hermes had gathered their souls and seen them locked away, the giants’ remains were cast into the sea, to be swallowed by the tides. But, just as the tides sweep things away, so to can they be returned, and one day, not so long ago, the body of one of these giants washed ashore. And it was found, by a mortal.” He sighed, “just as that titan’s blood was filled with malice against the gods, so too was that giant’s carcass. Even to touch it is to risk corruption by their foul intent. That mortal became the first Daemon, and he soon began to recruit more to his banner.”

Electra knelt, and began washing his leg.

“Does that answer your question, Heron?”

“I suppose,” said Heron, “though… I am surprised that you know so much. Did I miss some storyteller coming through?”

Elias laughed.

“An old man has his ways; perhaps when you are my age, you’ll understand.”

“They fought the giants; will the gods come to our aid, then?” said Electra, an odd tone in her voice, as if she already knew the answer.

Elias, after a moment, shook his head.

“Long ago, the gods carved out their place in this world, and though they exert dominion across the whole of it, their home is upon Mount Olympus. Though they may have raised humanity, they, like any parent, must let them succeed or fail upon their own strength.”

“Then we’re alone,” said Heron.

Electra looked back at him and seemed almost pained by his expression.

“Without the gods,” she said, in the tone of one trying to be optimistic, “but… Are there others who would help?” she shrugged, “perhaps the giant who turned against the rest.”

Elias chuckled, wryly, “that giant was left to the bottom of the sea, like all the rest. A creature may fight its nature for a time, but in time, it would have begun to plot against the gods again. Zeus knew as much, and did what had to be done. The giant’s death was the price of a lasting peace.”

Electra’s expression seemed to solidify, and then she let out a breath. “Then he offered it mercy and then killed it all the same.”

“Mom?”

She shook her head, as if trying to rid herself of a thought.

“I’m… Sorry. It’s just… It doesn’t surprise me.” She stood, washing her hands clean with a bit of the water. “You’ve seen the way clouds shift. Zeus takes a thousand different shapes, as it suits him. For him to promise it mercy one day, and strike it down the next does not surprise me…”

Heron and Elias exchanged worried looks.

Electra sighed. “Never mind me. Just restless thoughts. I’d busy myself with making something to eat, but…” She sighed, “well, we didn’t have time to buy anything.”

“I…” said Heron, and… Where was the rabbit now? He couldn’t remember feeling its weight for quite some time. Had he dropped it during the fight, or…

Elias chuckled. “I was wondering when you’d notice.” He pulled the rabbit loose from the front of his shirt. “You left it behind when you went to get water… And, let it not be said I come without something of my own,” he finished, also extracting a handful of herbs.

Heron let out a sigh of relief.

“That should see us through the night, at least,” said Electra, seeming to relax. “Stew, I think.”

Elias chuckled. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heron talks to Alexia.  
> Electra does what she has to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact! Based on what we see in episode 1, their house is like... At least like 20 minutes away, which means that I have no idea why Heron walked all the way down and then all the way back up. What was he doing down there?  
> I'm avoiding this issue by saying that in this case, they're only, like, 5 minutes outside of town.

“What’s your name?”

The Daemon’s body burned an unnatural purple in the morning light, even its strange, stony skin melting away under the fire.

“Heron,” he said.

Alexia nodded, solemnly.

“I’m surprised you survived,” she said. “Unarmed, that Daemon would have killed almost anyone. Have you been trained?”

“I’ve been getting in fights for a long time.”

“I see. And your arm is healing?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

There was a long pause. Before them, the last of the Daemon’s flesh sloughed away, as if it had long since been rotten, leaving its bones eerily clean.

“Alexia…”

“Yes?”

“Why burn the body now?”

“They need a reminder. Had I burned the body last night, too many people would refuse to evacuate.”

“And so what?” said Heron. “If they want to stay, why stop them?”

She looked sharply over.

“Because it would be their death.”

Heron didn’t say anything.

Eventually, Alexia sighed.

“There is a nearby encampment,” she said, “Perhaps only enough for a raid, but it would act as a staging ground for a far larger force. Every piece of intelligence I’ve gathered says they will attack soon. Tonight, I think. I will ride ahead with my companions. Perhaps, if the gods favor us, we can cripple them, or delay them long enough to offer these people more time to escape.”

Heron looked around at the townspeople. There was a great deal of bustle, some people trying to finish up last bits of business before they began to pack, making last minute trades. It was already noon, though, and Heron had been able to see much the same activity from his home for the past few hours. It showed no signs of slowing yet.

“And why tell _me_ this?”

Alexia grimaced. “Because I know you are not a Daemon, and I believe you will not tell anyone who might be.” And with that, she stepped away, and whistled for her horse.

Heron stared after her. It had been no proper answer.

So be it.

\--

An army, Alexia had said.

Electra sat in the hut, grimly stoking the embers of last night’s fire.

And where did that leave _them?_ Where, _oh mighty Zeus_ , was she to go now?

This place was to be safe for her and her son, and it had been. Safe, if not pleasant. But this army would care nothing of their relation to the town. Their obscurity would preserve them no longer.

And what then? Was she to leave the one place she was supposed to be safe? Which would be worse, the dangers of the army or…

“Mom?”

She straightened.

“Yes?”

“We should leave, shouldn’t we?”

She turned.

Heron was casting about, as if taking inventory of what he needed to grab.

“Heron…” she said, and… What was she to say? “Heron… We… We can’t leave.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“I-“ She paused. “I mean… It’s not that we _can’t_ leave. We just… It would be a risk.”

“More of a risk than staying here with a horde of Daemons bearing down on us?”

She pursed her lips. “I don’t know. Maybe.” She took a deep breath. “The problem is… It’s…” She sighed, and grimaced. “It’s about who your father is. Who… Who your mother _isn’t_.”

 _“Who my father is,”_ Heron’s brow furrowed.

And there was nothing for it but-

There was a commotion outside.

They turned, to the sight of…

 _“What now?”_ said Heron, bitterly.

Coming up the path to their home was a small crowd of townsfolk. They were carrying something, smoke rose, and she could see sparks. A burning brazier, with a long metal spike held in it.

Her heart sank. Auratus was at the front, and there was a particular grim cast to his face.

Heron stepped out in front.

_“What?”_

“We’ve come to test the witch,” he said, pulling the spike from the flame.

“You touch her, you die.” Heron’s response was immediate, almost instinctual.

“Come now, _Bastard,_ even you can’t be so foolish. A cloud descended upon this town the day she arrived, and never left. That’s no human doing. She’s one of them.”

Auratus advanced, and Heron’s fists came up.

That made them hesitate.

Electra glanced past him. Four, five men stood with him, some of whom she knew. Two of them she’d treated for typhus a year ago, and she’d amputated the finger of another when the wound had grown sick.

“You can’t kill all of us,” said Auratus, sneering at Heron.

“How many of you are willing to die for this,” Heron cut back, “because I’ll take as many of you with me as I can!”

They practically recoiled.

_“Makedon! Dorus! Tychon!”_

The men whose names she’d called out froze, and she knew, for a second, that she had their attention fully.

_“Please. You know me better than that. When sickness took you, I was the one your families sent for. And you, Karpos, you were the one who came to me when it was time for your daughter to give birth. I’m a healer, not a Daemon.”_

There was a moment, and a slow, uneasy shifting.

Auratus looked back at them, and they struggled to meet his eyes. She could just make out shock, and bafflement.

 _“Fine,”_ he spat, and turned back, still bearing the iron rod, “ _if you will be fooled by a Daemon who cures the diseases she sows, then so be it, but I will not be so easily-_

He was already swinging the rod as Heron’s fist landed in his stomach. He fell back, the spike tumbling through the air, landing at her feet.

Perhaps she might yet have convinced them, but Heron was still advancing on Auratus, clearly intending to follow up on his promise to make them pay, and that drove the uncertainty from their minds.

They advanced, and Heron was outnumbered.

Heron had been fighting long enough to make it almost an even challenge, but there were five of them. As he stood, one man scratched him across the face, and as he tried to advance on another, he caught a kick to the chest.

Yet for all that, he was unwilling to stay down, and she felt her face twist, wishing that she had learned to fight, or to… Or… Or _anything._ Yet how was she to-

There was a flash of light, the glint of metal as one man pulled a knife free and, goaded by some thought she didn’t remember having, she cried _“Wait!”_

To her deepest relief, this slowed the fighting, and for one more instant, their eyes were upon her.

_She had to make it count._

She pulled the iron from the ground; it no longer burned red, but the handle alone was almost enough to scorch her hand.

She clenched her fist, closed her eyes, and…

She couldn’t restrain the cry as the metal touched the inside of her arm.

_There was nothing but the sensation of the burning and the adamant intent to hold it there. Hold it until the metal cooled on its own. Give them no room for… For…_

Her body acted against her own wishes, casting the iron down, and slowly, the world came back into focus. She could barely see, and she realized, after a moment, that it was because of the tears streaming down her face.

Then, there were hands on her shoulders and Heron was there.

_“Mom! Mom, are you- You’re…”_

She tried, though she could scarcely tell if it worked, to force a smile.

One of them was shaking. Maybe both of them were. The world, even beyond what she could see, was blurring.

_The men weren’t approaching anymore, were they? They had seen it. They knew it- They-_

She could feel Heron’s hands twitching, almost balling into fists.

_She tried to muster the strength to say something, to caution restraint, but-_

He stood, and there was silence. His breathing shook.

_“Leave now, or I swear to the gods I will kill every single one of you.”_

The men ran, and, though the pain was still indescribable, she felt herself almost relax.

 _“Mom,”_ he repeated, _“Are you. Is it-_

She turned her arm over, and she heard the hiss of breath.

_But the pain was good. The pain meant the damage was far less than it might have been._

_\--_

_“Well,”_ she said, _“I… I suppose it’s a good day to… A good day to be a healer.”_

The laugh he gave in response was barely worth of the word, as he fell back on his knees. He was crying now, a hand covering his face, nails biting almost deep enough to draw blood.

 _Damn them all. He should have torn them to pieces, left them bloodied and broken, done_ something _, but…_

_But…_

He looked back at his mother.

_But she’d done this precisely so he wouldn’t have to fight them._

He let out a breath.

“Okay,” he said, “come on. I need you to tell me how to heal this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, for those keeping score at home, Alexia didn't show up to shoo them off because I don't know why she was there in the first place?


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elias offers Heron his advice and assistance, and confers with one of his sons.

Heron pressed the heels of his hands into his face. His mother had still had the presence of mind to instruct him in how to treat a burn, and the wound was now well bandaged, soaking in cool water.

She said it would heal, given time.

For now, though, he had taken a moment away, climbing up high, finding somewhere he could sit and stare out.

“Rough day?”

Heron turned, to the sight of Elias making his slow way up from behind.

He nodded.

“I wish I could have been there, but… Well, I don’t know what I would have done anyway.”

Elias sat down beside him, resting his cane across his lap.

They sat in silence for a moment.

“Elias?”

“Yes?”

“The clouds… They blame my mother for them, but…” He struggled to find the question he wanted to ask.

Elias, thankfully, seemed to understand. “You came here when you were very young; even on the brightest of days, you have never truly seen the sun. The weather here is certainly not natural.” He sighed. “But, what the Amazon said is true; war is coming. Things are wont to change in such times.”

He gently slapped his cane against his hand, seeming to contemplate it.

“In such times, it is wise to be prepared.”

“And how am I to be better prepared?” said Heron.

“I have heard an old story,” said Elias, and pointed, “about that mountain there. They say, at its summit, a falling star crashed, once, and where it landed, a strange rose bush grew, apart from any others. If you can recover what remains of the star, we will have all the ore we’ll need to craft you a blade like no other.”

“What smith would make me a blade?”

“Come now, Heron, you know every inch of this area.”

Heron’s brow furrowed. “The abandoned furnace? They say it’s haunted; some spirit that never crossed the Styx.”

“They may say a great many things,” said Elias, “but these are troubled times. I am afraid we must make do.”

“Were you a smith?”

Elias laughed. “Not by trade, no, but my son… Well, in my time, I’ve picked up some of the art from him.”

Heron rolled his eyes. If Elias was to be believed, he had a thousand children, all wildly successful, and yet never around to prove their existence. But… The old man’s eyes betrayed no sign that he was lying.

“Will you do it, then?” said Elias.

There was a long silence.

Heron nodded.

_He had never let them down before._

_\--_

The clouds were gathering, just as the thoughts and worries in his mind her.

Heron’s climb would be arduous, but… He would make it to the summit.

He stabbed his cane into the ground, and stared after him.

Rain began to fall, a drizzle, at first, then a deluge. He paid it no mind. Rain held no terrors for him.

The worst of it would be getting started. Once begun, it would be a test of endurance, and Heron had long since proven that he could continue to fight long after another’s strength would have failed.

Lightning flared in the sky.

He tilted his head, some tremble in the air subtly wrong.

“You followed me, I assume.”

“Of course I did,” came a familiar voice.

“Ah… Ares.”

“Of course.”

“And will you be telling the others of this place?”

“What would it matter? You’ve been altogether clear that until the bet ends, neither he nor his mother is to be touched.”

_Heron was far away, now, and the downpour would conceal him from anyone else._

Elias got his feet under him, but it was a mighty man, or… No, more than a man. Zeus stood.

“I suppose so,” he said, “yet I don’t think that Hera is above mischief.”

“Any more than you are, father.”

He turned, letting a trace of annoyance creep onto his face. Ares had removed his helmet, though he was armored as ever, and his expression seemed carefully devoid of any insolence. Perhaps _too_ carefully.

“You make it very clear that humans are to be left to their own devices,” he said, in the even tone of one offering an explanation to a superior, “yet you intervene on this one’s behalf.”

“Hm,” he said, carefully letting himself relax. “I see. You misunderstand my intent. In the end, he will stand or fall by his own strength, but it is no wrong for a parent to raise their child.”

Ares eyes narrowed. “Is that so.”

“Ares…” he said, and sighed, “You have seen enough death to know the fragility of mortals. On the day of a god’s birth, they may yet undertake mischief; you recall the night of Hermes’ birth, don’t you.”

“I do,” said Ares, and there was a sense of careful reserve.

“And on the night you were born, you could already brandish a dagger.”

“I could.”

“Then you know well enough that the responsibilities one has to a mortal child are different from those one has to a god.”

They locked gazes for a long moment.

Ares looked away first.

“I understand.”

There was silence, as the two of them carefully let the conversation fade into memory.

“He is the one climbing the mountain, then,” said Ares. Mortal eyes would not have seen Heron at this distance, through this rain, but Ares was unconcerned.

“He is.”

“Strength enough,” said Ares, “and will enough. But untrained.” He looked over, and… “You aim to forge him an Adamant blade, I think.”

“Hera’s champion is already well trained,” said Zeus, waving off the unspoken thought, “for mine to be better armed is hardly to cheat. The best wars are on level terrain.”

“Hm,” said Ares, and smiled; the expression seemed ill at ease on his face, grim. “The best wars to watch, often. To participate in, much less so. Hera will be displeased.”

“You say this as if Hera has no intention of securing her victory by any means she can get away with.”

Ares laughed, and this seemed almost genuine.

“Then you each cheat in anticipation of the other.”

Zeus nodded, solemnly.

“You believe he can win?”

“Of course.”

A long silence.

Ares chuckled. “I suppose you must. You would not have bet so much without believing in your victory…”

Zeus’ eyes flared. “No. I would not have.”

“Yet you must know the odds are against you. Why take such a risk on his behalf?”

Zeus crossed his arms, staring out towards Heron, but he was unable to keep his eyes from flicking down towards the hovel.

“I have my reasons. Let that be enough for you.”

He sighed. “If I ask you, will you help me?”

Despite the rain, there was an uncanny silence, that stretched out. Zeus resisted the urge to look back.

“If you order it, Father.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The idea of leaving terrifies Electra, and with good reason, but what choice do they have?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter contains some references (mostly oblique) to some pretty nasty domestic stuff, the section for which is unfortunately most of the chapter. If you wish to skip, your cue is when you see //, and the section ends at \\\\. A short summary of what you skipped will be available in the end notes for this chapter.

The rain fell in sheets as Electra laid back in her bed. The roof was holding, thankfully, and the cloth hanging in the door kept the worst of the wind outside. The fire made the air stuffy, but what warmth it gave was well worth the price.

The burn on her wrist still throbbed, pulsing with her heartbeat, but the worst of the pain had receded.

_And now what?_

They would need to leave, wouldn’t they… Heron had been right, though he hadn’t known the full story.

But leaving carried a fear of its own…

//

She had had a family, once. A mother, a father, two brothers, all low nobles, wealthy enough to enjoy comfort in their lives, but obscure enough to avoid the worst burdens of rulership. They had been gifted a small town to manage, and left to their own devices.

_She could still see her streets as they had once been, when the stench of the tannery mixed with the smoke of a nearby hearth._

She hadn’t even been 20 when war had been declared.

The fighting was short, bloody. One of her brothers had never returned, and then… She had been distant enough a relation to the king to avoid an excess of commitment, but close enough to secure the peace.

She had been a queen… but King Periander was no man to be married to.

The memories were nothing to dwell on. She had performed her duties and tried to avoid notice otherwise. There were a few of the noble ladies, some of the servants, who treated her with kindness, and that had kept her sane.

And Periander, as the years slipped by, had grown ever more discontented with her failure to produce a child. No heir. No son. Not even a daughter.

If there had been rumors about her, she could have handled it, but there hadn’t been. There had been rumors about _him._

She had taken to staring out from the balcony, wishing, more than anything, that she could be somewhere else. Periander had only grown worse, until…

_It was late in the evening, and she had been vainly hoping that he might return to the room too drunk, or too tired to think of her._

_There had been footfalls in the room and she’d shrunk into the chair. But the hand that found its way to her shoulder was gentle, and the voice, though recognizable, was unlike anything she’d heard._

_“Hello, Electra,”_ Periander had said, and her mind almost failed to understand the words.

He had been… Strange.

He had kept his distance, spoken softly, looked at her as if he had never met her before.

He had stayed for an hour, and left her with a small, golden brooch, before slipping from the door.

For a time, she had been hopeful.

_And then, when he returned, hours later, the world was as it had been before._

From that day forward, her husband had seemed not one, but two men. She began to recognize which he would be by the pattern of his footfalls, began to wonder whether the kind man who came to visit her on occasion was a mere hallucination brought on by a strained mind.

The men grew further apart from each other, the one, ever less satisfied, ever more dangerous, the other… The other only closer, and kinder.

She didn’t remember when she had begun to understand. Perhaps after a month.

_A man in the form of her husband, but unlike him. A man who seemed to have never met her before. A man who left her strange gifts._

_A god._

_She had attracted the attention of a god…. and as the days slipped past, she began to fear she knew which one. Some sense in the air when he was near, something in the skies after he left. Something in the stories she’d heard._

_Zeus._

At first, she had been surprised, hopeful, even.

_She had wanted freedom, and who better to help her attain it?_

And then…

_Something in the stories she’d heard._

Heracles had been driven into madness, forced to slay his family. The birth of Artemis and Apollo had been viciously opposed.

_Hera._

_If Hera knew… If she found out… Her life would be forfeit._

And the worst of it she realized after. Zeus understood the risk; he was willingly signing her death warrant, and Hera would be her executioner.

She wanted freedom, of course, but Zeus… What could she ask of him? That he help her, and then never speak to her again? He had been gentle, but gods were not known to take rejection lightly. To spite him would be nearly as bad as to spite Hera. Yet what choice did she have?

When next he came, she revealed what she knew. He had stood, then, surprised, perhaps impressed

And then she had asked him, for her sake, to look on her only from afar, to not risk his jealous wife’s ire.

He grew furious, saying that her choice was blasphemy, that to reject a god was a foolishness that only mortals could devise. The air of the room had crackled, then, and his eyes had glowed with an unnatural light. Yet, though tendrils of lightning had torn through the room, burned the sheets of the bed, cracked her mirror, he did not strike her down. He had railed against her stubbornness, sworn that the choice she made today would be one that she would regret for the rest of her pathetic mortal life, but, though only slowly, the storm passed, until he at last stood, sullen.

_“My lord,” she had said, “it is no need of the gods to worry about death, but mortals must.”_

_“Then let not my actions risk your_ mortal _life,” he had said, acid in his voice, “precious to you as it is.”_

There had been a man, then, at the balcony, tall and beautiful. He had spoken softly to Zeus, a warning tone all she could make out.

_“Then let us give her no further reason to expect me here. I was merely here to retrieve you.”_

And then, they had been gone.

When Periander had seen the room… It was better she didn’t dwell on such things, nor on his suspicions, paranoia. Worse still when she had realized she was pregnant.

She had prayed, then, though she knew not who to, that the child was Periander’s, that it would be a son, a suitable heir, and that he would finally be satisfied. Yet, as the months had passed by, painfully slow, she had felt only a growing certainty that it could not be that easy.

_Twins._

_It had been twins. One, born first, had the eyes of a prince, the bearing, every sign of nobility._

_The second, though… The second’s eyes had been those of a god._

_And then…_

_There had been a knife in Periander’s hand._

_A crack of thunder. A tall figure between them._

_Periander had known who he was attacking, she had no doubt. Perhaps he hadn’t cared._

_Zeus had cast him from the balcony, let him fall to the earth below._

_He had turned to her, expression thunderous, looked at the child in her arms, and, with scarcely a word, waved a hand._

_The wind had carried her, then, far away from the keep, far away from the guards, far away from prying eyes._

_Far away from her other son._

_\\\_

Electra, face in one hand, sighed.

She tried not to think back on it, and she usually succeeded; what would any of it profit her to remember? She could have reduced it to this; she was trapped here.

The clouds were some recompense for what had been inflicted on her, something to hide her from Hera’s view, she knew that, yet what was to happen if she left?

_And what would become of Heron?_

She didn’t know.

She couldn’t outrun a goddess.

She couldn’t defeat an army.

_And her arm still throbbed with pain, war drums under the marching footfalls of the rain on the roof._

There was a thud behind her, and as she rolled back, she saw Elias, firmly placing a piece of wood onto the dying fire.

“Wet, I’m afraid,” he said, “but the fire should dry it quickly enough.”

She nodded.

There was a long silence.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here earlier. It will heal, won’t it?”

“Yes,” she said, “with time…”

He glanced up at her.

“You’re worried,” he said, simply.

“It’s always been… Difficult, but to leave now…?” She left the thought unfinished.

Elias nodded, stoking the fire.

After a while, he sat back, staring at the flames licking at the wood.

“That should catch, soon enough.”

She chuckled.

“I imagine it should.”

More silence, as they stared into the fire.

“What becomes of you now?”

Elias shook his head. “Don’t be worried about me. An old man always has his tricks.”

_It was a lie, and they both knew it, but…_

“Of course,” she said.

“And what of you?”

“I don’t think we have a choice but to leave. The gods… They see a great deal, but they can’t look everywhere at once. Perhaps, if we’re far enough away from Olympus, we’ll find somewhere where Hera will never look.”

“That would be far indeed, if you bring a son of Zeus with you,” said Elias, ruefully. “But I suppose you must try.”

She nodded.

“The sooner I can leave with Heron, the better.” She sighed, looking out past the cloth at the door. “Where _is_ he?”

“I sent him on… an errand.”

She blinked.

“What do you mean?”

“In such times, it pays to be well equipped; there is a stash of rare metal atop a nearby hill. Properly worked, it would make a weapon suitable for a demigod.”

_Suitable for a demigod. A damnable phrase if ever there had been one._

Still, there was nothing for it.

She sat up.

_She needed to be ready to leave by the time he made it back, and there was no time to waste._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Between // and \\\: Electra comes from a family of low nobles. Following a war, she was married to a king 'Periander' as part of the peace deal. It was an unpleasant life and only growing worse. After some time, Zeus came to her in the form of her husband, though she only realized it was him after some time. When she realized, out of fear of Hera's retribution, she asked him to leave her alone. He took this poorly, but eventually did as she requested. Electra discovered, shortly afterwards, that she was pregnant. She gave birth to two sons, one by Periander, and the other by Zeus. Though still angry, Zeus decided to preserve her life, and that of her child, killing Periander, and taking her far from the palace (and her other son) in the process.  
> End Flashback.
> 
> I definitely prefer writing in the present of this timeline; it feels neater, somehow. Possibly the issue was the way I was accelerating time?


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heron climbs. Alexia looks for a way forward against the Daemons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had the realization while writing this chapter that I've mentioned things being made of iron a few times, when I'm pretty sure that wasn't the metal du jure at the time. We're just gonna... We're just gonna ignore that.  
> Also, Happy 2021, and well done on making it through 2020.

One hand in front of the other.

There was no sign of this mountain’s peak, and scarcely any sign of its base.

Foot by miserable foot, he ascended.

_“Of course,” he grumbled, the words coming without conscious intervention from his mind, “perfectly normal. Climb the mountain, retrieve the ore. Exactly the sort of thing that an entirely sane old man says. Then what, make a sword in a haunted forge? Are you going to forge it into the blade? Is that what it is, Elias? Do you want me to get possessed, because this is how people get possessed. This has to be the most idiotic plan I’ve ever…” He sighed. “But it’s not like you’ve ever been wrong before, is it. Damn.”_

The climbing was mindless, which meant he was free to continue his mixed stream of annoyance, and whatever thoughts passed through his mind.

It would be a while, yet.

\--

“Do you have a plan, Archon?”

Alexia glanced back at Xanthe on her left. They had left the horses tied up further back; they could see smoke rising nearby, and the encampment would surely have guards on watch.

“The shape of one, perhaps. We will be outnumbered. We can’t defeat them in direct combat.”

 _“Then we must avoid direct combat,”_ came Kore’s soft voice from the other side.

She nodded. “We will be hard-pressed to outrun them on foot if we are caught, so we must avoid detection if possible.”

“How many did the map say there would be?” came from her left.

“It said ‘forward encampment,’ with no other details. I assume at least 50, maybe more.”

She didn’t need to look back to see the grimaces on their faces.

She put up a hand.

They were in view.

The Daemons had set up camp in a large clearing, lines of tents in rows that formed a path straight to a larger one in the center. There were no walls, but by the way the grass was trodden down, they had been here for at least a week. There appeared to be a fight near the center of camp, or… perhaps a drill? A combat exercise, certainly. Near the center of the camp, past the crowd she could just make out the sight of wagons, each covered by a dome of iron bars. Cages for prisoners.

 _“Sloppily defended,”_ said Kore, eyes already flitting back and forth across the camp. _“Unwalled. Canvas tents.”_

“And where are the sentries?” asked Xanthe. “If we had arrived with even half their numbers in Amazons, they would be dead by the time they knew we were here.”

_“Perhaps they believe their presence has gone unnoticed thus far. They know of no enemies yet.”_

Alexia shook her head, as…

As…

There was a mounted figure, in the center of the camp. Long white hair in a braid. Burning red eyes. At this distance it was hard to tell, but…

“No,” she said, “I believe they know of us.”

They glanced at each other, behind her.

“Then where are their defenses?”

“A trap, possibly.”

 _“Then from where…?”_ muttered Kore. _“In the tents? Are we_ _observed already?”_

Xanthe glanced about.

“They would have attacked if we were.”

_“Did the map say when they were to move?”_

“Soon, I think,” said Alexia, “By evening, perhaps.”

“Then our time is limited.”

Alexia nodded.

_“No clear signs of critical storage. What are they eating?”_

“Where are their latrines? If they’re remote enough, we might be able to take a few silently, perhaps sow some fear among them.”

_“We could torch the camp. It would burn easily.”_

Alexia grimaced.

“Remember, our primary aim here is to delay them long enough for the townspeople to escape in earnest. Deprived of food, they would likely raid immediately. We would be their first target only if they knew of us, but they must not learn of our presence until we are gone. Killing them is only to notable benefit if we kill enough to force a retreat.”

“Understood, Archon.”

_And what would delay such a force?_

_\--_

He stood, and looked up to the next section of slope, but… Nothing. There were only the clouds above him, now. He staggered to his feet, breath rasping in his chest.

The wind blew all the more fiercely, here, and the rain stung at his face.

Weather aside, it was a striking place; windswept rosebushes surrounded him, and both behind him and before him, the edges of the mountain’s flat top dropped away into the seemingly endless fog and rain.

But… There was a reason he was here, and it wasn’t so that he could be touched by the might of the world. He was looking for… For… _‘A strange rose bush, apart from any others’_

And there it was. Unmistakable, there was a single bush, separate from the rest, in the very center of the plateau, no larger than the rest, but… its petals were an impossible, bloody red, and its leaves unnaturally vibrant.

He started walking forward.

_And what was he supposed to do? He had left without grabbing so much as a dagger to cut away at the branches._

He knelt before the bush. It was a remarkable thing, really, the way it defied the light, and what his eyes knew it should look like. But right now, that was just a distraction. He grimaced, gritting his teeth preemptively, hands clenching at his side.

He hadn’t left himself any other way to do this.

Slowly, he reached forward, and wrapped his hands around the stem. The thorns stabbed in, painful, but he tightened his grip all the same.

_He pulled._

_\--_

Seraphim stood, looking at the smoldering wreck of the tent.

 _“I expected more,”_ he said, and smirked, though neither his soldiers, nor the Amazons (for it must have been them) would have heard him.

A single burning arrow had flown from the forest, leaving a long, smoking trail, and landed in the canvas of one tent.

The fire had scarcely lasted ten seconds, before being fiercely beaten into nonexistence. Long enough to cause damage, but not long enough to catch anything important.

And his men, of course, had taken the initiative (though he would have ordered them to regardless) and set out to hunt down their mysterious assailants, following the smoke.

These Amazons had as good as marked themselves for death, and for what? A bit of torched canvas?

He shifted his grip on the bident in his hand.

There was, of course, every chance this was part of some greater plan, but… The better part of the camp was hunting them; a horde of stronger and faster enemies pursued them. The skill of Amazons was notorious, but at a certain point, skill had to give way to crushing advantage.

Still. He would stay here, for now. Perhaps one of them was drawing their attention so one of the others might torch the camp in earnest, and if they did, he would be here.

\--

The boy knelt, now, breathing heavily, staring at his bleeding hands. Then, after a second, he reached down to the churned earth where he had pulled the rose bush free, and began to dig.

Ares, despite himself, had to admit some small, grudging respect. To willingly let one’s own blood be spilled in pursuit of a goal was a rare trait among mortals… Rarer still among gods. And he had scarcely rested before continuing on. But of course, that should have been no surprise; the boy still had scars from fights from when he’d barely been old enough to make a fist. Better armed, more numerous opponents, reacting with the natural pride that came with divine blood. It was a potent mix.

Yet, he was neither a general nor a soldier; not enough leadership for the first, nor enough discipline for the second. He was the sort to rush forward when provoked, and tear into his enemy.

There were only two kinds of mortals who thought like that: heroes, and corpses.

Ares chuckled as he pulled away from the scene. He wondered whether he’d be the first before he became the second.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are few things that will convince a camp of bloodthirsty Daemon's to delay their raiding, and none that are safe, but presented with the option, the Amazons have little choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoof! That's my longest chapter thus far, and only the second one with no analogue in the original show. This bad boy took some *effort*.

It was… smaller than he’d expected.

Heron wiped the mud away from the lump, and winced at the shimmering light. ‘Ore,’ Elias had said, but Heron knew ore, and this wasn’t it; this texture, the smoothness of the light… This was refined, and despite how long it must have been buried, there wasn’t the slightest sign of decay.

“How do you always know, old man?” he muttered.

He lifted it, and found it lighter than it should have been. Well, the lighter it was, and the smaller, the easier it would be to descend the mountain again.

_And he’d need all the help he could get, at this rate._

Heron clenched his eyes shut, gritted his teeth. The bleeding from the thorns was beginning to slow, but he could still feel it seeping through the mud on his hands, still feel the stabbing pain whenever they so much as twitched. His body was still complaining from the ascent, aching from the fight yesterday. His shoulder, barely given time to heal, was becoming reluctant to even do what he told it. But didn’t have time to wait.

He closed one fist, shut his eyes.

_He’d had worse, damnit._

He forced himself to his feet, tucking the metal away.

He’d get this down the mountain starting now, if he had to _throw himself off_ to do it.

\--

_There was the smell of burning meat._

_‘Lady Artemis, we ask your blessing.’_

Alexia willed herself to stillness, forced her lungs to breathe slowly, evenly. There was raucous shouting beneath her, running footfalls. _Past her, not towards her._

_‘Today, we are to be hunted.’_

“There!”

The throng beneath her, which had begun to slow, began to bolt, again, catching sight of its quarry.

_‘Let our hunters be blinded to us.’_

By the direction, they’d spotted Kore.

Good. That was good.

_‘Let us be swift.’_

She shifted, slightly, glancing around the tree bough that only narrowly concealed her.

The Daemons didn’t run like Amazons, nor like the humans they’d once been; they were always bent forward, posture strangely animal. But they were fast. 

Too fast to outrun.

_‘Let us be cunning.’_

She would need to move soon; it wouldn’t be long before Kore would lose them, and Xanthe would catch their attention. By that time, she’d need to be somewhere plausible to take over for Xanthe again. Just like she’d done the past hundred times… Or… Was it closer to ten? A thousand? No… No, it couldn’t be a thousand. The sun was beginning to grow close to the horizon, but however little time it felt like she had to recover, it still took longer than that.

The last of the stragglers were making their way past, now.

She’d need to start moving soon.

_‘And our greatest request of all…’_

She froze, at the sound of a rumbling growl.

“A clever trick,” said a familiar voice, “but I’m afraid you’re only hidden to the eye.”

_‘…when the chase is done, let us escape with our lives.’_

Alexia wrapped one hand around the hilt of her sword. Whatever had made the sound down there was large; some kind of hunting beast? And the voice…

“It _is_ you, isn’t it?”

_How closely did he know her position?_

She began to slip the blade from the sheath.

_He clearly held a position of power. There was a chance, however slim, that if she could kill him, here and now, that the army would shatter in the vacuum._

“Silent to the last, then,” he said, “so be it.”

She felt, more than heard, the sensation of something coming; a unnatural, palpable sense of impending doom.

She dove forward, not quite seeing what gruesome fate she had narrowly avoided.

_Now what? To another tree?_

No.

She had to handle this _now._ The longer she delayed, the worse her situation became.

She cursed under her breath, and leapt from the tree, pulling her swords loose.

She landed, back to the trunk of the tree, and took a breath.

_Kore and Xanthe would have to manage without her._

_Danger._

She slipped forward, and spinning, saw two prongs, protruding several inches through the tree, just where she’d been standing a moment ago. She backed away, internally grasping for some tactical advantage she could take right now.

There was a flicker, and she blinked, as… The tree fell, cut at a slant, and as it fell away, she could make out what _exactly_ she was dealing with.

His hair had gone an unnatural white, and his skin that same dark, stony grey, but even if he hadn’t spoken, she would have recognized the man from last night. Her eyes slipped down, to-

A manticore. He was riding a manticore, and in his hand, he held a massive bident.

“I admit,” he said, “I would have expected you to show up later.”

“Doubtless you did,” she said, barely registering the words.

_Primary risks:_

_Manticore. Poisonous maw, venom in the tail’s spines. Massive claws. Manageable, by itself, though the wings made escape a particularly difficult proposition._

_Bident. It was clearly something beyond natural weaponry; mortal weapons didn’t fell trees in a single swipe. The reach, especially while mounted, would be potentially catastrophic._

_Seraphim himself. If the Daemon she’d fought before was anything to go by, even if she could land a hit on him, she’d be hard pressed to really hurt him. Assuming he shared the strength and speed as well, even unarmed, on foot, this battle was slanted against her._

_Daemons. There was at least enough for a raiding party. There was some 50 of them actively hunting for her right now. Kore and Xanthe were now a woman short for distracting them, too, which put them in danger just as much as her._

_Taken all together…_

_Bad._

_Primary assets?_

_Relatively small size. She wasn’t relying on a mount obeying her. At sufficiently close range, his weaponry would be choked out. In denser tree cover, that manticore would have trouble keeping up with her._

The thoughts flickered through her head in an instant.

“Still,” he continued, “your appearance is unsurprising.”

_There was no victory in this fight as it stood._

“And yet you left yourself entirely unguarded.”

He laughed, sounding genuinely amused. “Yes. And what did it gain you?”

He advanced, slowly, but by his pleased expression, he believed his victory assured. _At this rate, he wasn’t far off._

“We are the strong,” he said, “any that you killed would simply cull the weakest from our ranks.”

There was movement in the corner of her eye. Figures nearby, in the woods.

_Daemons._

“And yet, you failed to kill even the weakest of us.” He scoffed.

“What of the other two?” said Seraphim, not turning.

“Other two?” said one Daemon, stocky and broad even by their standards.

Seraphim clicked his tongue, annoyed, but not properly angry. “A problem we will deal with momentarily.”

_That was wrong. He should have sent a party after them. He should have made sure they didn’t escape, so why…_

The idea clicked into place in Alexia’s head. _There was a reason the Daemons hadn’t torn her apart yet._

_Ares please, let him grow foolish with wrath._

“You say you are the strong,” she said.

There was laughter from around the circle that had formed around them.

He nodded.

“And among the strong, the strongest must rule.”

They were pacing, now, and Alexia could hear muttered words from the Daemons surrounding them.

“How else could it be?”

_Good. Good._

“How very strange then,” she said, “that you say you lead here.”

He barked a laugh.

“Is that so.”

“You clearly mean to fight me to assert your strength, yet you cower upon your mount.”

Seraphim cocked his head at her, clearly unimpressed, but the words hadn’t been for his benefit; the Daemons around them had gone very quiet as they circled each other.

His gaze slowly swung across the assembly, and she could practically see them looking back and forth between the two of them, even as her eyes remained resolutely on Seraphim.

He laughed, breaking the long silence.

“You aim to weaken me,” he said, “a transparent trick.”

He leapt from the manticore’s back.

“Yet if you think that will save you, then you are mistaken. I need no such thing.”

_Good. This was good._

_Victory would still be a deadly proposition, but there was no point worrying about that. Even to wound him would fracture his authority. To kill him, to remove the leadership entirely, better still. Cost what it might, she would accomplish what she came here to do._

“Will that be all?” he said, still maintaining his appearance of unworried confidence. “Will you ask me to drop my weapon next? To face you unarmed? Perhaps you would prefer me to turn around, to give you a moment to _behead_ me first.”

There was scattered laughter from the Daemons around them.

Seraphim stopped pacing, and brought the bident up.

_No more delaying it._

She raised her swords.

The swing wasn’t subtle, but it _was_ horribly quick. She slipped back away from it, and advanced as it passed by. There should have been too much momentum for him to stop swinging so quickly, but Seraphim scarcely seemed to twitch before, over one shoulder, the bident stabbed out, straight for her.

The world around her blurred, as she dodged, first one way, then the other. The bident was a weapon meant for foes at a distance, but Seraphim seemed to have an intimate understanding of how to _keep_ an enemy at a distance. It moved in his hands as if understanding his very thoughts, swinging, stabbing out, and keeping always _just_ far away enough that even as she dodged one strike, she still wasn’t close enough to counter without leaving herself open.

She didn’t know how long had passed. Time seemed to lose meaning as she fought to even stay alive.

_He stabbed out, just as she came to a halt from a dodge._

_Barely even understanding the action, she brought one sword up, brought the other hand up to the flat of the blade, and managed to catch the bident between the prongs._

She was launched backwards, but she kept her feet, sliding to a halt.

She could at least _see_ Seraphim breathing, now, though he didn’t seem the least bit tired yet. Well, that was fine; neither was she. 

_He lacked the frenzied motion of the Daemon she’d fought the previous night, but his defense was all the more precise, all the more impregnable. At least that meant he still held some fear of her blades._

“You understand now, don’t you?” he said, “you cannot win.”

This wasn’t for her, and they both knew it; this was simply grandstanding for his underlings.

_And it was a lie. He was faster, and certainly stronger, but she could still make out flaws in his technique, places where a daring motion might catch him off guard… Or get her killed._

“You haven’t touched me yet,” she said.

And there, on the edge of her senses… She cocked her head, and couldn’t quite keep the corners of her mouth from quirking up. _Smoke._

Seraphim seemed to catch the twitch, and she could see, though not fear, a trace of uncertainty.

Well, if she was going to ruin his authority, this was the moment to do it.

“Perhaps you possess some meager skill,” she said, “yet you are a fool all the same.”

“Says the woman about to die,” he said.

“No? You think when I kill you, that they will not listen to me? Among the strong, the strongest rules. Yet even in death, I would be wiser than you.”

He laughed. “Is that so.”

“I know where my enemies are,” she said. “And you willingly let yours evade you.”

There was a moment of worry, and then his eyes widened, and she could see the glow of fire in them.

_Now… What had he said about his name?_

“You will not escape it, this time.”

The words had the desired impact; there was fear in his eyes, now.

_“Companies 3, 5, 6! The fire! The rest of you, hunt down her compatriots. Convert them or kill them!”_

The Daemons, galvanized by their general’s words, scattered, and in an instant, the two of them were alone. No crowd, nobody blocking her escape.

_They were alone… Except for the manticore._

If she tried to run, it would be upon her. If she tried to fight, he had no reason to hold it back from joining him, anymore.

Seraphim, for all he’d clearly been scared, seemed to have mastered himself, and fear had become shame, which had become anger.

He opened his mouth to speak, but Alexia was already upon him.

He was off-balance, but just as much as skill, he had _instinct._ The bident spun, and even with surprise on her side, she narrowly avoided being skewered.

But he was on the back foot, now, and she needed him to stay that way. Her swords blurred, almost without conscious thought.

_She was inside his guard, now._

She stabbed forward, both swords at once, and it was only with a mighty twist of the bident that he was able to keep himself from being stabbed. The blades met a tree trunk, and, for an instant, they were frozen in place. His hair, kept loose, was now disheveled, hanging across his face. His eyes were wide, filled with burning iron, and the dread of mortality, and… Exhilaration.

She slipped her swords loose, but before she had the opportunity to aim for his guts, he had shoved her away with an inhuman strength, sent her sliding back.

He barked a command in a language she didn’t recognize, and there was a twist in her stomach as the manticore responded to it, growling, and then, in an instant, it was leaping, and her swords were up, but it was too massive, too deadly at this speed, to survive.

She should have died. Seraphim should have died.

The fates seemed to have other plans for both of them.

The arrow, en route to Seraphim’s head, landed with a meaty _thwack,_ cracking through one side of the manticore’s skull. It was too late to stop the leap, but the claws, all too ready to tear her to pieces, were forgotten.

The beast slammed bodily into her, and she felt her body slam back into a tree, her vision flashing white with the impact.

They both stood, stunned for an instant, as the manticore _howled_.

_“Run, Archon!”_

_Kore._

Seraphim ducked to the side, only narrowly avoiding the second arrow, and the third.

Alexia needed no further prompting. While the beast howled in pain, and Seraphim tried to recover his bearings, she bolted.

The trees embraced her.

_Daemons. They had been sent to hunt them down, so where were they?_

There was a flicker in the trees, and Kore was with her.

 _“Report,”_ she managed.

 _“Xanthe to the south,”_ said Kore, between careful breaths, _“She set the fire. Daemons mostly searching to west. Camp damaged, but usable.”_

There was a roar from behind them, and Seraphim’s deep voice thundered out through the forest.

_“Hunters, to me!”_

How far to the horses was it? A minute? Two?

Three companies had been sent to the fire. How many did that leave hunting? Few enough?

She could hear them following, now, but she knew this clearing. They’d passed it just after they’d dismounted.

Then, there was a rustle in the leaves, and as Alexia dove forward, into a roll, the Daemon that had leapt at her passed over her head.

Kore wasn’t so lucky. The Daemon caught her by one shoulder, overshot, and rammed bodily into a tree, but Kore was still staggered, and though her dagger came out in a flash of silver, she was off balance. The Daemon lunged, and-

The sword rammed into its head, and Xanthe had slipped from the trees, and had grabbed one of Kore’s hands, already pulling her on.

And they were running again, all three of them, but there was a sinking feeling in Alexia’s stomach. There were the horses, of course, now in sight, but the Daemons were on their trail. She could hear them around her, now. Footfalls behind her, to the left, to the right, everywhere but in front.

_If they couldn’t reach a full gallop, they would be caught, overwhelmed._

“Archon!” called Xanthe, and Alexia scarcely needed to glance back to see that she’d come to the same conclusion, that they both had.

They wouldn’t make it out like this.

There was no other Amazon waiting for her moment to strike. The fates had been generous, but even they would not do the impossible.

She could feel another of them, mere steps behind her. She couldn’t turn, lest she slow down, and she couldn’t run, lest she be caught. She was-

“Onward, Archon!”

_“Xanthe, no!”_

Alexia glanced back but… Kore was still following, and behind her, Xanthe had stopped entirely, another Daemon dead at her feet. She raised her swords.

“You call yourselves strong!? Come prove it! A granddaughter of _Ares_ stands before you!”

There was a shift in the movements around her at that, a hesitation, and then a reversal. They had been challenged.

 _“No!”_ bellowed Seraphim, now close behind. _“All of them! Get all of them!”_

But the hesitation had been enough.

Alexia leapt, and in an instant, was on her horse. A Daemon scrabbled near, and for a sinking, horrible second, it seemed as if it might catch hold of a leg, but…

They were away.

_Three horses… Two riders…_


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heron makes it home with strength he doesn't have, and meets someone he's only heard of.  
> Alexia and Kore continue on their way.  
> Seraphim has plans of his own.

He fell the last ten feet, landing on his back.

The rain was beginning to abate, now, but that did him little good, now. His hands were numb, his whole body leaden, practically nonresponsive.

Perhaps… Perhaps if he simply lay here, his body would… Would…

His vision was going grey, now. If he fell asleep, would he wake?

_A shame, really._

His eyes flickered open again.

There had been… Or… There had been a voice. Or… Or perhaps a dream of one.

There had been disdain, disappointment.

He turned his head, though the motion felt as if it was through honey.

No one was there.

He was… He was hallucinating. That… That was a bad sign, wasn’t it?

He needed… He needed to get inside.

He rolled, the lump of metal pressing uncomfortably into his chest.

_One more time. One more time, and he would be done. He would be home, and Elias would have the metal._

He clenched a fist underneath himself, and _pushed._

His arms shook, but there was something else, too; it was like fire, burning, first in his arms, and then through his whole body. It was excruciating, yes, but it cut through the leaden numbness.

There was a roaring in his ears, and as he forced himself once more to his feet, his vision, though blurred at the edges, was crystal clear in front of him.

He staggered forward.

\--

It was quiet, now; the Daemons had, eventually, realized that they were outpaced, and worse, that Kore’s bow was terribly accurate. The horses, for the moment, had slowed to a quick trot.

Alexia glanced over.

Kore was scarcely looking ahead, eyes fixed on the mane of her horse. Her lips moved silently, whether prayer or thought, Alexia didn’t know.

She seemed to sense Alexia watching her, and turned.

Alexia cocked her head.

She bent her head, exhaled gently.

_“We can’t go back, can we.”_

“No.”

_“I understand.”_

There was a long silence.

“Kore…”

She looked over again.

“Their leader may be wise enough to take her prisoner.”

The words sank in, slowly.

Kore nodded, softly, then slowly straightened, taking a single, steady breath.

_“Of course.”_

There was a long, long silence.

Kore sighed. 

_“This is unbefitting an Amazon.”_ With a visible effort, she straightened. 

“ _What next, Archon?”_

“Next,” said Alexia, looking at the road ahead of her, “we make sure the town is fully evacuated.”

_“And then?”_

“We take the map to Chiron. If he knows what they want, and where they’re going, he should be able to help us find where they came from… Where we need to go.”

_“Then lead, and I will follow.”_

\--

The bags were packed, everything worth carrying tied up neatly. It wasn’t much.

_And where was Heron?_

She stepped outside, and found…

She shivered, looking up.

It was light. _Properly_ light. Above her, she could make out a shade of blue she’d almost forgotten existed. There was a crack in the clouds.

_So this was it, Zeus? This was the answer to ‘what now?’_

Well. She’d known she would have to leave. Of course. This… What difference did it make?

At least it was beautiful. It had been so long since she’d seen a blue sky.

_“Mom?”_

And then, as she turned, there was a _thud,_ and Heron was on the ground.

\--

Heron rolled from his bed, and scarcely felt himself hit ground.

Something was wrong.

He shifted his shoulder, and found it strangely painless. In fact… He felt… Almost good.

“Not bad,” said a voice, and… And…

Heron looked up, and realized that he didn’t know where he was. But that voice… He’d thought he’d heard it before, as he’d laid at the base of the mountain.

He looked up, and up, and matched eyes with a man in armor.

“Stand.”

Heron did, not even thinking. It was as if the command had been to his body, rather than to him.

The man was taller than him. His eyes were a dark grey, or… No, it wasn’t just his eyes. His whole body, even his clothes, seemed to be ashen. He looked at Heron as if weighing him.

“Do you know who I am?”

Heron stared.

_He didn’t know where he was, nor how he’d gotten here. He was in a tent. A cot was in one corner, and in the center, a low table._

The man seemed in no hurry.

Heron tried to think.

He’d been _brought_ here, hadn’t he? But when? How?

But…

A suspicion began to form in the corner of his mind.

“How long was I… _Am I still_ asleep?”

Solemnly, the man nodded.

 _A dream._ _The man, a warrior._

It sounded absurd, but… he… He wouldn’t have asked if he hadn’t expected Heron to at least know his name, right?

“Ares?”

The barest trace of a smile slipped across his face.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Why?”

Heron’s fingers curled at his side. _“Why speak to me?_ ”

“Because you have fire in your bones, and enemies on the horizon,” said Ares, simply.

“You’re offering _help?_ ”

“A choice,” he corrected. “I make no great habit of offering free help to mortals.”

_Of course he didn’t._

“You can’t escape, anymore. The old man means to help you, but you have been broken beyond your capacity to run. The Daemons will come, and they will find you. And they will tell you to convert, or die.”

He spoke with an iron certainty, eyes steady and words even.

“As it stands, those will be your _only_ options, you understand.”

“And? Get to the point”

“I would watch my mouth if I were you, boy,” said Ares, eyes flashing, “If I told you to stand and fight, you would do so, though your body were decayed, and your spirit beyond the Styx.”

Heron had long since learned to shake off the feeling of being looked down upon, but something in Ares’ eyes made him seem very small indeed.

“I see no point in letting your fury go to waste,” said Ares, coldly, “so I offer you the choice to fight. Nothing more. Take it or don’t.”

He snapped his fingers, and Heron _burned._

\--

_Thud._

_Thud._

_Thud._

She let out a low groan, and slowly remembered her own existence.

_Okay._

Her body was… Intact. Mostly. Her head seemed to have been injured, but she could feel her toes and fingers move. That meant her limbs were still there. Good start.

She shifted.

_No armor, and no weapons, by the feel of it._

Cold at the wrists and ankles. She twitched, and heard a worryingly familiar clink.

_Chained._

_Bad._

But… If she was restrained, that meant she was still alive, and this wouldn’t be her awakening by the Styx.

_Come to think of it, her head probably wouldn’t hurt if she were dead._

Okay… Personal check, done. Surroundings?

_No footsteps. Unobserved?_

She slowly cracked one eye open.

“I was wondering when you would wake up.”

_Well… Damn._

\--

She was stockier than her Archon, black-haired, but with eyes that glimmered nearly golden when they opened; the effect put Seraphim in mind of a caged predator. Appropriate, of course.

_He should just kill her now. What point was there in a useless hostage? She had to convert or die. Her Archon would know better than to barter for her._

Seraphim kept his expression even. 

“I trust you understand your circumstances.”

She silently and deliberately lifted her head enough to get a better look at him.

“I do.”

“Then you understand _why_ you are still alive.”

“You told them to convert me or kill me. Which will it be?”

“That depends entirely on you.”

“Death it is, then.”

“Very well.”

He pulled a dagger from his side, and strode up to her.

He raised it, and let it drop.

She scarcely flinched as it stabbed into the wood of the table, a hairsbreadth from her cheek. Seraphim was, for a moment, almost eye to eye with her.

“But not yet. I will only let you die once you’ve told me of your Archon’s plans.”

 _“Then a long life awaits me,”_ she hissed through gritted teeth.

 _Defiance,_ came the whisper. _It must be quelled. Strike again, and aim for the throat._

Seraphim ignored the thought. Eurymedon, for all his power, had little understanding of subtlety. It was Zeus’ persuasion that had ultimately defeated him, yet he had learned little from the betrayal.

Instead, he laughed.

“Tonight, we march. Tomorrow, we will have to convince you otherwise.”

“You’re welcome to try.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It occurs to me that the progression for the story thus far has been:  
> Plot: Is happening.  
> Heron: Is getting more and more beat up.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zeus is worried, about just about everything that's happened today.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's nice to finally get to one of the chapters that makes it a bit clearer what's different in the plot. Hopefully, this chapter adds some hinting at what's going on.

In the heights of Mount Olympus, Zeus was pacing.

The sun was almost down, now. The Daemons were moving, and Heron… Heron wasn’t.

Zeus, in the form of Elias of course, had left the sword with Electra; she had been surprised, almost disbelieving to see it, both baffled by its form, and by the fact that he had delivered it in mere hours. He had managed to laugh it off, and… He’d said his goodbyes, and taken his leave.

What else could he do? He had spent altogether too long away from Olympus as it was; the longer he was gone, the more suspicious it would seem. Ares had willingly let the matter of his helping to raise the boy drop. Hera would not, were she to hear of it.

Elias had no place there, of course, and Zeus had even less. Still, though…

 _To stand or fall on his own strength._ That was what he’d told Ares. But it scarcely seemed as if Heron would _make_ it to his feet.

All that work, every foot up the mountain, the time he’d spent forging the sword…

He took a breath.

Perhaps he’d made a mistake. Perhaps…

“Do I _want_ to ask where you’ve been?”

He froze, and turned, as Hera stepped between a pair of pillars.

“Shall I take that as the accusation it sounds like?”

“Could you tell me honestly that there’s nothing to accuse?”

“And what would you call worthy of accusation? I’ve long since lost track.”

 _“Philandering and adultery,”_ she spat, “for a start. Have you found some other harlot to avail yourself of?”

“I was speaking with my son,” he said, mustering a fair bit of indignation, “I spoke with Ares afield, some distance from here.”

 _And, of course, neither statement was even a lie._ _If he’d spoken to more than one son, then that was his business._

“Ares,” she said, flatly.

“By all means,” he said, “ask him yourself.”

She laughed, the sound a flurry of snow, “I certainly shall.”

They fell into silence.

Neither seemed particular eager to stand there, yet neither seemed quite able to muster up a better place to be.

…

“Apollo will likely return shortly,” said Hera, eventually.

“I suppose so,” said Zeus, “am I to take some meaning from that?”

“That night is falling,” she cut back, and sighed. “I merely thought that the gardens were near, and that they are splendid under moonlight.”

“A romantic walk under the stars, then?” said Zeus, almost laughing.

Hera stared silently askance.

“Something to stir the memory of one,” she said, softly.

Silence.

Her expression, such as he could see in the darkness, was one not of fury, but of sullen annoyance.

“Very well.”

\--

Electra stared down at the weapon laid across her knees.

It was simple enough in its form; the hilt was wrapped with leather, and the cross guard was simple. No jewels, no gilt. The scabbard (gods only knew where Elias had gotten it) was nondescript. Elias had somehow managed to forge it in mere hours, and somehow, this simplicity was a relief to her.

 _‘Fit for a demigod’_ he had said. Well, this weapon at least gave no external sign of being anything special. Internally, though… She slipped a bare sliver of the blade free.

It _shone,_ an unnatural blue, like a noon sky on a cloudless day, but brighter still, brighter than the lights around it.

She covered it over again.

_And Heron was to fight with this. Heron, who had never wielded a blade in his life. Heron, who came home bloody and bruised even against mere humans. Heron, who, though he was careful not to mention it, had surely come close to death last night._

_She could still hear the voices, when she thought about it, echoing down the years._

_‘He died a hero’s death. If ever there was a man bound for Elysium, it was your brother.’_

_And yet, what had he died for? For a stalemate in a war that had seen her torn from her family as a peace offering._

She looked over at Heron, lying motionless on his bed, and pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes. _A shrouded figure, a stern admonishment not to remove the veil from his face._

Heron would fight, just as he always did; he would stand, and she would watch her son die in front of her.

There was the thunder of drums in the distance.

She felt her body grow cold.

_How far were they now? Would they know to look here? If the town was evacuated, as it was meant to be, then would they explore?_

And if they did… What then?

_Then they would convert, or die._

Of the two… To be made a thrall of the Giants, doubtless to be condemned to the depths of Tartarus when death finally came…

And yet, to just let herself die. To let _Heron_ die…

\--

The breeze was warm, and sweet with the scent of a thousand flowers. The moon shone on high, and the stars glimmered against the darkness of the sky. Zeus looked up at them, and wondered which of them looked back tonight.

How strange it was; the one person with ambitions against him, and she walked beside him.

“Tell me,” he said, “how goes it with your champion?”

She looked over. “You mean to say you haven’t been watching?”

He chuckled. “Oh, I have, but I know my own thoughts; yours are something else entirely.”

“Hm. I doubt your success more with every hour.”

“Is that so. No fresh setbacks to make you pause recently?”

His tone was innocent, but Hera gave him a withering look.

“You mean what became of her compatriot,” she said, and it wasn’t a question. She shrugged. “She escaped. Her purpose is made all the more urgent to her; I have no doubts about Alexia’s success. She _will_ find the giant’s carcass, and she _will_ destroy it. And you? Tell me, Zeus, what of your _bastard?_ ”

“Well…” he said, managing a mysterious smile, “I suppose you’ll simply need to wait and see.”

_Best to leave out Heron’s current situation._

“Mm,” said Hera, but her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “You’ve certainly put the odds against yourself. It doesn’t seem as if you’ve even told him what he’s to do, yet.”

“Suffice to say that I have every confidence in his success.”

\--

The prayers of mortals were strange things. Words that caught the wind, lifted on the smoke of an offering. Some were so quiet that they could scarcely be heard, or rejected even as they were spoken, settling, leaden, into the dirt.

Still, many, many prayers arrived.

Hera prided herself that she was among the more diligent in her duties; scarcely a marriage went unacknowledged, nor a hurried prayer from a mother that she be able to master herself and her unruly children.

Most prayers were simply the travails of life; a bride with cold feet, an expectant mother in the pain of childbirth.

The prayer she heard now was one of the _other_ kind, desperate and hushed.

_“Lady Hera, I… I’m sorry.”_

Zeus, beside her, tilted his head, as if he could almost make out the whisper on the wind.

_“You have every reason to hate me. I know you do, and I ask no forgiveness for myself.”_

Zeus’ face grew ashen.

She knew this voice. The image it conjured in her mind… A woman she had seen before, years ago. A woman who had prayed for temperance in her husband, peace in her home.

_The blind spot cleared, a patch of clouds now fully gone._

A woman who had borne a son by Hera’s own husband.

_“But my son is innocent. Tonight, I fear for both our lives, but I only ask the chance to save his.”_

She turned, slowly, to look Zeus in the eye.

_“Please, Lady Hera. Let me save my son.”_

The prayer ended, short but fervent.

“She calls upon me.”

“She does.”

“And I ask you, what allegiance do I owe to a woman who has defiled the bonds of marriage?”

Zeus was _scared_ , now, and barely even hiding it.

“The same allegiance you do to any mother pleading for her child’s life.”

She laughed.

“Perhaps.” She sighed, feeling, for the first time tonight, almost relaxed. “So long this woman’s very existence has been a thorn in my side, and now she offers herself to me freely.”

He looked like a cornered beast.

“So, _Mighty King,_ what reason do I have to do _anything_ other than what she requests?”

She could see him thinking frantically, twisting, contorting his mind in a desperate effort to find a way out.

“I…” he said, tone almost a whisper. “I have one.”

“Oh?” She had expected bluster, or posturing, some little quirk of her duties.

“She… She is as innocent as he is.”

Hera laughed.

“Is that all you can muster?”

“She…” Zeus grimaced, steadied himself. _“She rejected me, the very instant she discovered who I was.”_

The words had scarcely been a whisper, inaudible to all but her, yet the silence seemed to ripple out from them, as if all Olympus was trying to catch them.

A secret that only she among them knew.

_“Is that so…”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact, the Amazons are supposedly the offspring of Ares and a wood nymph, and, since Ares is a child of Hera, that technically means that both of their 'champions' are blood relations (though I'm sure Zeus would point out that Ares is also *his* son, which Hera would respond to by saying that he's kind of disowned himself by his adultery, so Ares is more her son than his)
> 
> Also, I'm thinking about changing the name on the fic (From the Start was kind of a placeholder name because I couldn't figure out anything better), so if you get a notification for, like 'Sons of Electra' or something, you'll know why.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seraphim commits at least one murder.  
> Hera makes her choice.

Seraphim hadn’t expected any great resistance; he had, after all, been present when Alexia had told the townsfolk to evacuate. In truth, they could very well have passed the town by entirely, but for the fact that they needed to resupply. The people of this town couldn’t have carried the entirety of their supplies away with them, whatever time they’d had to prepare.

The gates stood wide open, and they marched inside, as much as this army ‘marched’ anywhere.

Empty streets, deserted homes; it seemed they had evacuated in their entirety, except… near the center, a twisting plume of smoke.

He pulled back on the reins, raised a fist. The Daemons behind him came to a halt.

“Split up,” he said, “take what you can. Everything of use, anything of value. If any remain, convert them or kill them. Dismissed.”

It was like a stone dropped in a still lake; ripples of Daemons spread out, tearing into abandoned houses, ransacking empty workshops.

Seraphim paid them little heed; let them hunt.

_“Forward.”_

The manticore beneath him lurched forward unsteadily. After tonight, he might be best suited to simply slaughter it; if the bleeding didn’t stop, or if the wound grew ill, then it would die of its own accord soon enough. Better to kill it now than to have it fail him on its own terms. Though… Perhaps he might find some use from it yet. He would have to see about that after he found the source of the smoke.

_So many lost converts. Should have taken them last night. Alone, if necessary._

Seraphim ignored the suggestion. What chains would he have kept them in? And what would he have done against three Amazons simultaneously?

_Should have killed them in their sleep. Should have snuck in, retrieved the bident, dismembered them before they could even wake… Perhaps keep one alive to convert… They were strong, after all, and they would be all the stronger once converted._

Seraphim chuckled under his breath.

_“And yet you didn’t suggest this at the time.”_

_Annoyance. What chance? Gave away secret for a cheap scare._

_Should have killed their leader when she followed, at least._

_“Quiet, Eurymedon. The bident was far away, then, and she was armed.”_

_Should have carried it along._

_“Far too obvious.”_

_How could they have responded?_

_“I needed them alive for information,”_ he said, rolling his eyes.

_Information useless. What reward?_

He scoffed. _“I aimed to find out.”_

_Already bident; giant-killer, nigh unstoppable. What else required?_

Seraphim gave up. The mind of a giant was not one to be easily swayed, and Eurymedon’s understanding of power existed orders of magnitude too high to understand petty mortal advantage and disadvantage.

Besides, he could see the source of the smoke, now.

In the center of the town square, there sat an old man, next to a burning brazier with an iron rod in it. Seraphim squinted, and a grin spread slowly across his face. Well, well, well.

“Auratus Theogonis,” he said, as he grew close enough for the man to hear him.

The man’s eyes narrowed.

“You know me?”

“Of course. Son of Epizelos, and, by extension, cousin of King Acrisius.”

“For an outsider, you know a great deal about our noble genealogy.”

“Oh, I assure you, I’ve heard you brag of your relations. You see, I spent quite some time here, searching for some secret thing of value.”

The man’s eyes widened, and Seraphim barked a laugh, slowly advancing.

“But still, the name Theogonis would be enough. You see, I’ve had every reason to pay attention to King Acrisius’ family.”

“And why is that?” said Auratus, pulling the iron from the fire, taking the torch beside him in the other hand.

“Oh,” said Seraphim, gesturing at the scar over his eye, “he left his mark. That’s why I’m so glad to see you here. I would hate to think that _any_ relation of his survived meeting me.”

Auratus stood, and though he practically reeked of terror, there was a sense of building resolve.

“I was granted stewardship of this town, and whatever it costs me, I will not see it _taken_ by the likes of _you.”_ He reached back the arm holding the torch, but he wasn’t aiming for Seraphim.

The bident jabbed out, catching his wrist between the tines. Seraphim _twisted,_ and the bones gave way.

The man fell to the ground, seemingly in too much pain to even scream.

“You would burn your own home to deny it to me,” said Seraphim, and… _The smell of oil._ “A trap, I think.”

He stared down at the man, writhing in agony on the ground, and smirked.

“You will die for nothing.”

The bident stabbed out.

The writhing slowed, then stopped.

Seraphim sighed.

“Unsatisfying.”

He glanced around, but… There were no signs that anyone else had remained in the town.

Well then, best to leave the more pedestrian looting to the soldiers.

_“Skyward.”_

The manticore unfurled its wings.

\--

Hera gazed out from Olympus.

“The leader of the Daemons moves towards her,” she said, though Zeus had his eyes fixed on the area, and surely knew as well. “One can only wonder at his intentions.”

She began to walk, along the rail, fingers trailing along the marble.

“Neither has time to escape, now.”

 _“And will you help them,”_ came Zeus’ gritted response.

“Patience, husband; I haven’t decided, yet.”

She continued.

“When he arrives…” she paused, scoffed in annoyance. “I see. The boy bears a blessing from Ares, something to let him fight; it seems you truly did meet him afield.” She shrugged. “No matter. He will have no chance to use it,” she snapped her fingers. “let him sleep.” She chuckled. “But let the sounds without him echo in his dreams.”

 _“Hera,”_ said Zeus, tone warning.

“You see it as well as I,” said Hera, with a sharp smile, “if he fights, then she will surely die. So if she is to survive, as you ask, he must not fight. I do only as you ask of me.”

Zeus gritted his teeth.

“And why seek her out?” said Hera, and cocked her head, as if listening. “A simple enough reason, yet…”

There was a moment of deadest silence, and then Hera laughed. The sound broke through her stern demeanor, for a moment, genuine amusement at some joke only she knew.

“ _Truly?_ ” she said though none had spoken. “I had all but forgotten; I see the fates haven’t lost their sense of humor.” The amusement faded, and she seemed for a moment, to genuinely consider.

“Very well,” she said, “the giant that possesses him does not fully control him. Let its control be loosened for a moment. Let him have… A moment of _patience,_ before violence takes him again.”

There was a tension in the air, a sense of concentration, and then all was still again.

“So be it,” she said, and turned to Zeus, now smiling, half pleased, half triumphant. “As she asks, and as do you, she will be given a chance to save her son. I make no promises as to her _continued_ safety, of course. Yet I think she may yet make it through the night.”

Zeus let out a slow breath. 

“You have made an honorable choice, my wife.”

“The choice of a good queen, I think,” said Hera.

\--

The fire was long since doused, and, as the drums remained in the distance, Electra could almost believe that she would pass unnoticed. After all, it wasn’t as if the house was visible in the dark, was it? And even if it was, surely it was too far away, too shabby, to be of interest to a group of Daemons. Or, perhaps…

There was a rush of wind from outside, and the sound of heavy feet making contact with the ground, and Electra, not for the first time tonight, felt her stomach grow leaden.

Heron was fast asleep, and she had little hope of waking him now; she was trapped inside, unable to escape; if she ran, she would be pursued, killed, and they would surely return afterwards, find Heron. _Would they even try to convert him?_

Her breath shuddered in her lungs.

\--

Seraphim’s boots crunched into the dirt of the road, and he held his bident loosely.

He advanced.

There was silence within, but whether it was the silence of emptiness, or the silence of a pair of outcasts who hadn’t been welcome with the other refugees, he wasn’t sure, yet.

A cloth hung in the door.

He slashed out with the bident. The wood that outlined the door cut easily, and the wall cracked. The cloth fell away. Not a sound to be heard.

Yet… There, in the darkness, invisible to all but the keenest eyes… Laying on the floor, was that a figure?

_Neither would have deserted the other._

He chuckled.

There was an almost imperceptible sound, and Seraphim froze, head cocking as he tried to place it.

Then, there was a flash of light, and he only barely managed to step back in time as a glowing blade slashed out, coming near to his throat.

The bident was too low to cut back immediately, and the blade quite near to his throat.

At the other end of the blade, the woman… The _healer…_ She stood, eyes wide, but the blade, though it shook, was still steady enough to kill.

“Careful,” he said.

“What?”

“Killing me would be the last thing you ever did.”

She froze. Her eyes twitched to the side, to the manticore. She understood.

“Convert or… Or die, isn’t that it?”

“Yes,” he said, “yet I think you might be of some use even before then.”

“What do you mean?” She was terrified.

“You are a healer.”

“I… I am.”

“And could you preserve a creature’s life after it took an arrow through one eye?”

He kept his eyes trained on her, as she once again glanced over.

“Perhaps,” she said.

“Good,” he said. “Now… I offer you a chance to live. And your son. Come, be converted, and serve.”

She gritted her teeth.

“I would sooner die.”

“So be it,” he said.

He slipped backwards, kicked up with one foot. The sword flew up, out of her hand, and, spinning, he caught it.

“Then you will die,” he said, and swept out with the haft of the bident, knocking her from her feet, “and then so will he, and the manticore shall feast upon you before I slaughter it.”

The sword was pointed at _her_ throat now.

“Then let me make you an offer.”

He cocked his head.

“Oh?”

“I’m the one you need. I can save your beast. Leave him here, untouched. No Daemon comes near, and I will heal it.” She shuddered. “If I must be converted, then so be it.”

He stared down at her, silently, for one second, then five…

“I accept. Stand.”

She did so.

 _“To me,”_ he said, and the manticore advanced.

“Your wrists,” he said, pulling a set of chains loose.

She swallowed heavily, and reached out.

The manacles were cold, and tight.

 _“Ready to chase,”_ he said, mounting the manticore. Then, behind him, “follow.”

“You know what happen to both of you if you try to escape,” he said, not bothering to look back.

He started forward, slowly.

The sword glimmered, a weapon of quality almost to match his bident. And his manticore might yet continue to serve…

He’d been right. There _had_ been something of value in this wretched town.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heron finds himself... Elsewhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd wager we could call that the end of chunk one of this story, and this marks the beginning of chunk 2.

There had been the laughter of a woman he didn’t know, and then an unshakable lethargy had set upon him.

Massive wingbeats nearby, hushed movements.

He had struggled, fought to move, felt the fire burning under his skin, but something had held him still.

Muffled words, too distant to make out in their entirety, but he’d known his mother’s voice, tinged with a horribly familiar fear. There had been another voice, too, almost too deep to be human, and more amused than anything else. It had been confident, self-assured. Heron knew that tone; it was the one he heard every day in the market when someone overcharged him, secure in the knowledge that he had no choice but to accept. That was when he had struggled the hardest, desperate to shake off the sleep that held him firm, to tear the smug tone from the man’s throat.

And then, there had been silence.

He had still struggled, even then, for a stretch of time that had begun to elude his understanding, but eventually, lost behind his own closed eyes, he had fallen truly asleep.

And then…

Heron’s eyes opened.

He squinted, as light hit his eyes; steady, and slow, and omnipresent, and… bright.

For a moment, the past was forgotten, as he tried to roll to his stomach, to get to his feet.

He fell, and hit soft, wet grass.

Grass.

He stared, stupidly, and pushed himself to his feet, hands damp and cold with dew.

Another dream?

He had been on a low bed made of wood, yet the way it was crafted made it look almost woven. His head had been rested on a silver cushion.

He turned, slowly in a circle, and… He was in a forest?

And there was that light, still blindingly bright, slipping through the trees, catching in the mist, making it nigh impossible to make out the source.

So now what? Was he supposed to go towards it? Away from it? Did it matter?

“Do you feel well?”

Leaned up against a tree, with all the ease of one who had been there the whole time (though Heron surely should have spotted him when he’d looked around) was a young man, a bit taller than Heron himself. His clothes were simple, but immaculate.

Heron blinked at the question, and…

“Who are you?”

“Introductions shortly,” he said, “first, I’m very curious how your sleep has treated you; I wasn’t responsible for your treatment, but I do have a bet riding on it, so I’d prefer an answer sooner rather than later.”

He spoke easily, tone light and words rapid.

Heron, almost to his own surprise, found himself shrugging his shoulders, tilting his neck this way and that.

“I’m alright,” he said.

“Leftover fatigue?” he asked, “I heard you had quite a climb, and Ares himself had to make sure you got up at the end. Don’t think he’d have lied about it, either.”

“I… Yes?” said Heron, “I can still feel it.”

“Shoulder? I heard that would have been quite painful?”

“No!” said Heron, suddenly realizing that he’d spent the last 10 seconds completely off-topic from what he’d been trying to get to. “It fine- _better_ ; why does that matter? Who are you? Where am I?”

He laughed, lightly, “easy there, no need to get angry, alright? You’re in a grove that would normally be held sacred to Artemis, and I am the one who brought you here. Good start?”

“Wh-“ _that just raised more questions._ “But that’s not- That’s- Where’s my mother?”

He shrugged, for the first time a bit less cheerful. “That, I’m afraid, I don’t know. Though, from what I’ve picked up, she’s likely been taken by Daemons. _Where_ they took her, I haven’t gone looking, but I do know that she’s still alive.”

Heron simply stared, and then, slowly, let the tension drop from his shoulders.

“And… what were you saying about Artemis?”

“Ah, yes,” he said, “I suppose that’s only fair to ask. This grove is... Well, as the goddess of the hunt, she rarely stays in one place, but this is one of her more common haunts. Except for her, and her hunt, of course, nobody should come near.”

Heron continued to stare.

“Aren’t there stories of what she does to people who do that?”

“Oh, what she does to mortals, yes, but we should be fine.”

_To mortals._

“You’re not a mortal,” he said, flatly.

The man blinked.

“No? I’m sorry, do you not recognize me? Did Father never give you an apt description of my charms?”

“Father?”

Silence.

“Oh, I see,” he said, “he really didn’t tell you _anything._ ”

_“Who didn’t!?”_

There was a silence as the man straightened up, in the manner of a herald preparing to deliver his message.

“The King of the Gods, the Thunderbringer himself, Lord Zeus.”

The glade was dead silent, but for the sound of a bird gently chirping in the background. The mist was slowly fading away, and that terrible brightness was growing all the stronger.

The formal demeanor dropped, and the man looked at him more closely. “Confused, I think? Or perhaps surprised. I will say, you aren’t quite without precedent, he’s had a great, great many children out of wedlock.” He shrugged, and smiled, “of which I count myself one.”

The pieces were slowly clicking together in Heron’s head, though the whole thing sounded, by itself, ridiculous.

Yet… His mother had always been strangely quiet about his father, always vague… She had spoken about Zeus almost as if she knew him…

“You’re saying… I’m one of Zeus’ bastards.”

He laughed. “Well, truth be told, I’ve always thought that when it comes to Zeus, bastardry matters much less, but yes, I suppose that would be one word for what you are.”

“Then… If you’re also one of them… And you aren’t mortal…” Heron ran, internally, through the list. There were a few notable ones, and surely a few that he was forgetting, but by the looks of him, the way he moved, the way he spoke…

“As you imagine,” said the man, bowing, with a wide grin. “I am Apollo, god of the sun, among a thousand other things.”

Heron paused, opened his mouth to respond, but before he was able to get a single word out, the light behind him seemed to catch properly, and he cringed forward, eyes almost going closed as it flared blindingly bright.

“Come now, Hermes,” came a voice, light, musical, airy, from the light behind him, “no need to confuse him so soon; plenty of times for jokes when he’s found his feet properly.”

Hermes, for the voice behind had confirmed his initial suspicions, laughed cheerily, seemingly unbothered by the light. “And a fair bit of time _now,_ brother.”

The morning mist had finally slipped away and as Heron turned, he almost cringed back at the brilliance that met his eyes.

Before him stood a man, taller even than Hermes, with shimmering golden hair, and skin the color of burnished bronze. Beyond the trees, he was silhouetted by a sky bluer than any Heron had ever seen, and surrounding his head, a blinding halo, was _light._

“Now,” he said, “I’d long have thought that the sun sees all, yet I don’t think we’ve laid eyes on each other.”

 _“Apollo,”_ managed Heron, for he could be no one else.

“The same,” said the man, and smiled. “Father, I fear, has kept you hidden from us all, even from me.”

Heron had seen the sun, of course, but… But never like this. His mother had spoken of places without clouds, of blue skies and sunshine so bright it could blind the incautious. Heron had all but forgotten about those stories.

Apollo stepped forward, and the spell was broken, the blue sky scarcely visible through the leaves of the trees, and the sun behind him little more than flares through the cracks in the canopy.

“Now,” he said, “I imagine you’ll have questions, but before we deal with those, you will need to eat, and answer a few questions regarding your physical state; to heal as quickly as you have can be a taxing experience for a mortal, and it’s only right to proceed with due caution.”

“Food, we have,” said Hermes, already moving deeper into the glade, gesturing for Heron to follow “no great feast, but enough for the day. Have you warned Artemis that we’ll be here?”

Apollo, following even as Heron did, nodded. “I saw her in the grey hours. She’s annoyed, of course, said that she wouldn’t hesitate on our account against stopping in, but I don’t think she’ll cause any harm over it.” He glanced over at Heron, “at least as long as we don’t give her any further reason to.”

“Then breakfast it is,” said Hermes, “tell me, brother, have you ever tasted ambrosia?”


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heron gets some explanations.  
> Electra does an examination.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chonkier chapter ahead, I should warn you.

“Just imagine if you’d been fully mortal,” chuckled Hermes, as Heron struggled to regain his bearings. “Ambrosia takes more getting used to than most humans can handle.”

Heron gasped a breath, and he was back in his body. There, as before, was the low table, the gleaming cup he’d been loath to touch, filled with the thick, clear liquid they’d told him was ambrosia. Heron would have been hard pressed to say what it tasted of, nor what it smelled of; it was neither sweet nor bitter, unless it was both.

“Perhaps only a bit at a time,” said Apollo.

Heron didn’t manage a proper response, only managing to nod weakly.

“Probably should have warned you about that,” said Hermes, as if to himself, then shook his head. “Not that it would have made any great difference.”

There was a long silence, then, as Heron took another miniscule sip.

“So,” said Apollo, “answers.”

Heron looked up,

Apollo shrugged. “Where would you like to begin?”

“My mother,” said Heron, immediately.

“Ah, yes,” said Apollo. “I suppose you’ll want to know this all got started.”

“I _want,”_ said Heron, teeth gritting, “to know where she _is_.”

Apollo raised his eyebrows. He glanced over at Hermes.

“Still alive, last I knew.”

Apollo nodded, closed his eyes, seeming to search for something written on the inside of his eyelids.

“Your mother…” he said, and, as he opened his eyes again, they glimmered with an unnatural light. “Alive, yes. At the moment, she’s-

\--

“-a prisoner, just as much as any of the others,” said Seraphim, dismissively.

Lykos looked past him, to where the healer was carefully examining the manticore.

“Completely unchained,” he said.

Seraphim went silent.

“Do you mean to tell me that you fear her, then?” he said.

Lykos bristled. “Of course not.”

“You believe that she will escape then, is that it? You think she will simply walk out? Or is it that you doubt your own wits so strongly that you believe she will sneak past? When she is finished, she will be confined as any other prisoner.”

“And finished with _what?”_ spat Lykos, audibly ignoring the question. “The beast has proven its weakness. Only the strong live.”

“The strong…” said Seraphim, hand clenching around the bident that wasn’t there, “tell me, Lykos, when your sword grows dull, do you throw it away?”

“Of course not.”

“And if your shield takes an arrow, do you discard it?”

“No…”

“Then tell me,” he said, “what reason do I have to throw away a weapon better than either?

He could see the fury boiling underneath his lieutenant’s carefully blank expression.

 _“As you say, general,”_ came the growled response, after an interminable time.

“Good. Now, return to your station. Last night’s raid offered no experience in battle, and supplied no new converts; adjust the training accordingly.”

“Yes sir.”

Lykos stepped back, out of the tent.

_Insubordination?_

_Perhaps best to kill._

The problem was that Lykos was _competent._ Rare among Daemons, he had maintained a sense of discipline, presumably from his prior life as a soldier, and he had no qualms about enforcing it on others; even the freshest of the soldiers knew which company they belonged to, and, moreover, responded to commands in the heat of battle.

It would be unwise to kill him lightly.

Seraphim shook the issue off. Time enough for that later. For now…

\--

He’d said _something_ to the manticore, and it had gone very still. Gods only knew what it took to train a manticore, but it hadn’t killed her yet, so whatever it was, he’d apparently done it.

Hadn’t killed her _yet…_ a worrying qualifier…

She glanced down at the claws, and carefully put them from her mind. The fangs were the bigger concern, since…

Since she was so close…

She could feel the rush of hot breath with every motion of its chest, the smell something straight out of an abandoned slaughterhouse. Its teeth were bared, and its remaining eye was fixed upon her.

“Well, it’s not like I have any choice in the matter,” she said, swallowing heavily, “you’ll just have to suffer through it.”

The manticore didn’t seem to even realize that she was speaking to it.

Now… If she was right… She pressed, as gently as she could manage.

The growl shuddered in her chest, making her shudder.

She slowly pulled back, and… Still alive. Still alive.

“Well?” came the deep voice from behind her.

She took a slow breath, steadied herself.

“The eye itself is a lost cause; what remains will need to be removed before it can rot. Still, the wound isn’t infected, and if it’s treated properly, it shouldn’t _become_ infected.”

“And you _can_ treat it properly?”

_Ah. That._

She sighed. “I didn’t have a chance to bring my supplies. I can improvise some of them, but the medicines will be more difficult.”

“Which means?”

She turned.

“If I can’t get them, then the chances of infection rise drastically. The sickness would likely spread to the rest of the head, ruining the other eye at least.”

“ _Would,”_ he said, “and not will. Why?”

“I should be able to forage what I need from the woods.”

He laughed. “Is that so. Out in the forest with some few guards. How very… Unsecured.”

She let out a slow breath, and looked him in the eye. “Fine. Then I will treat it with what little I can find.”

His expression betrayed nothing, but she got the impression that she was being silently measured.

Eventually, he shrugged. “That shouldn’t be necessary; the soldiers are indiscriminate about what they take in raids. The contents of the apothecary will likely be available.”

“Where?”

\--

Seraphim stared, and resisted the urge to sigh in annoyance.

What he really _ought_ to have done was assign someone to keep an eye on her, with orders about where she was and was not to go, but the problem was… Who would he order to do so? Those with wits enough for the task were in short enough supply that they were better suited elsewhere. The rest would be too bloodthirsty to be reliable. He could kill them after the fact for disobeying orders, but that would hardly accomplish anything.

“Follow me,” he said.

Of course, it really wasn’t as if this was _such_ a waste of his time as all that; something in her eyes gave him the impression that after she was converted, she might become an officer, and the sooner she knew her way around the camp, the better.

_Not officer yet. Not converted. Still enemy._

Still an enemy, that was true… And the way her hands had stayed steady, even so close as she had been to the manticore… Her body held no great strength, and her eyes were eternally fearful, but Seraphim thought he could just make out something underneath that; something dangerous. It bore keeping an eye on.

\--

“They came from the east,” said Heron, pacing, the ambrosia long since consumed, “did they continue west?”

“Yes,” said Apollo. “I believe they’ve stopped to repair their camp, but they should be moving again.”

Heron nodded, slowly. “Then that’s where I need to go.”

The two gods looked at each other.

“Now, if I may make a suggestion,” said Hermes… “Perhaps you shouldn’t.”

“I’m _going_ to rescue her,” said Heron.

“Yes, yes, a noble goal!” said Hermes, putting his hands up in a gesture of peace, “yet, I fear, one that would be doomed to failure.”

“You would be outnumbered,” said Apollo, “by foes with strength beyond that of humans.”

“And…” said Hermes, and sighed. “I’m afraid even if you were to succeed, by some twist of the fates, you would still be doomed.”

Heron crossed his arms.

“Shall I explain from the beginning?” said Hermes.

“Fine.”

“Excellent. Although… Apollo, you would know the beginning of it better than I would.”

“Mm,” said Apollo, “if you recall, I was going to tell you how this all started. Now might be the right time for it.”

There was silence.

“Where to start… Perhaps with Zeus himself. And Hera. Mortals are… familiar with their relationship, aren’t they?”

Heron nodded.

“Excellent, then you’d be familiar with the… Infidelity.” He sighed, and shrugged. “It’s how I was conceived… And Artemis… Hermes, of course… Dionysus… The Muses… to say nothing of the various mortal children, of which you are one. Heracles…”

“Perhaps we leave the full list for another day,” suggested Hermes. “We are, as it might be, burning daylight here.”

“Yes, of course,” said Apollo, and turned back to Heron. “At the moment, it’s _you_ we need to worry about; Zeus, as a rule, trusts me not to tell Hera about his affairs, so I know more than most. He,” he waved his hand vaguely, “saw your mother on her palace’s balcony, spent some time waxing poetic about her beauty, and then…” He shook his head, “suffice to say he went to her in the guise of her husband.”

“Wait,” said Heron, frowning. “Her palace?”

Apollo blinked.

“Yes.”

“ _Her_ palace.” He shook his head, and- “Her _palace.”_

“Yes. She was the queen.”

“My- She was a queen?”

“Ah,” said Apollo. “I see. Yes. Yes she was. The queen of Corinth.”

Heron _stared._ The basic premise of royalty, he was familiar with, but from the way Auratus had always bragged about his mere _relationship_ to king Acrisius, he wouldn’t have suspected his mother of…

_Acrisius, king of Corinth._

“My mother,” he said, “she’s… She was… Of Corinth?”

“Yes,” said Apollo, “she was married to the last king, Periander. You see… But I’m getting ahead of myself, now. Zeus courted her as has always been his wont; I wasn’t privy to the details, but shortly after you were conceived, he cut off contact with her. Something, though I never saw what, brought him to the point of letting his power show through; Hera saw enough to make her suspicious. We tried as best we could to avert suspicions with the story that _I_ had been the one courting her, but Hera isn’t the sort to let such things go easily. She planted the thought in Periander’s head that the child might not be his own, and when you were born, his suspicions were only confirmed. Beyond that… I know little enough; your birth was after sunset, and all I know of it was what I later heard.”

“But I,” said Hermes, “saw some of it myself.”

He pushed away from the tree he’d been leaned against, casually cracking his knuckles.

“I saw Zeus staring out, though I didn’t know what he was looking at. He saw something, though, that he did not like, and, well, _as a bolt of lightning,_ he flew to the palace. I didn’t hear what happened there, but I saw him throw the king from a balcony. And then…”

“Yes?”

Hermes shrugged. “The winds rose, and blinded those who watched. When they fell again, your mother was gone, and so were you. And Hera… Well… She had been watching over the birth personally. It seems her duties coincided neatly with her suspicions. She knew, then, with certainty.”

He shook his head, and began pacing. “The kingdom was thrown into an uproar, of course, left in the hands of the newborn heir, who was killed mere weeks after his ascent, but that was nothing in comparison to the strife on Olympus.”

 _“Wait,”_ said Heron, finally managing to catch something in the stream of new information, “newborn heir?”

“Ah,” said Hermes, “yes. Barely a footnote with how quickly he died, but your mother bore twins, one by Zeus, and one by the king.” He chuckled, ruefully. “An uproar over his father’s death, and aspersions cast over his own. They say it was by his own uncle.” He shook his head. “But I’ve distracted myself. I was speaking about Olympus.”

A moment of silence, as he gathered his thoughts.

“Normally, the pattern is simple. She has no way to punish Zeus directly, so when Hera discovers the affair, and takes out her anger on the mother, or the child.”

“As it was for me,” said Apollo.

“Exactly. This time, though, even though she knew of his infidelity, both you and your mother were gone, and well hidden. She had nothing to strike back at him with. Or… So I would have thought.”

“There’s a certain… _deference,”_ said Apollo, “that she has always shown him, both as husband and as king. After the night you were born it… It was gone.”

“Their arguments shook the heavens,” said Hermes, “for _years._ Even the mortals felt it, though few understood the cause. Hera would demand satisfaction, punishment, _anything,_ even prevailing upon other gods to take her side. Several of them considered it, and, I think, if a few more had taken her side, they would have been able to force Zeus to concede. Zeus, of course, was furious in turn; no king takes insubordination lightly, and the king of the gods least of all. Yet he himself still owes certain things to Hera; any punishment he must mete out to his wife reflects poorly on him as well.” He laughed. “I don’t think either of them became better loved through their fighting, but I think Zeus got the worse of it; he had a penchant for vanishing after their worse spats, which only made Hera angrier. She insisted that he must have been having another affair, or continuing his old one. Though, that said, if that were the case, I would have expected you to know your parentage already…”

“I… Surely I would recognize him.”

Apollo shrugged. “He has a penchant for disguising himself. Normally, he takes the form of something familiar to mortals, but made… glorious.”

“Glory is the furthest thing from the place I grew up,” said Heron.

“Strange,” said Apollo, but he seemed unconcerned. “Then I suppose he gets to keep the secret of where he was really going for another day.”

“Regardless,” said Hermes, “after years of strife, Hera finally managed to force a concession; Zeus asked that you be given a chance to prove yourself, and, if you could, Hera would finally drop the issue entirely. It’s no mere chance that the rising of the Daemon’s coincides with the lifting of the clouds above your home.”

“Any other time,” continued Apollo, “I think Hera might have accepted.” He sighed. “But… Not so easily this time, not after so long spent fighting over the matter. You see, she claimed that if Zeus were to lose, what she would win was nothing more than she had been owed in the first place. She wanted more. Something Zeus would never give freely.”

 _“And of course she has some claim,”_ muttered Hermes, seeming, in the silence, genuinely worried.

“Some claim to _what?_ ”

He looked over, and Heron could just make out nerves behind his eyes.

“The Throne of Mount Olympus.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heron learns the proper explanation for why he is where he is. It's annoying.
> 
> Electra does her best

There was a long silence, and, as Heron looked between the two gods, they seemed genuinely worried.

“And?” he said, “Is that supposed to matter more to me than the fact that she’s threatening to kill me and my mother?”

The two of them looked at each other, and…

“Well…” said Hermes, a trifle uncertainly, “it would have more lasting repercussions on the wider world, certainly.”

“The ‘wider world’ has done nothing but hate me.”

“…Ah.”

“Well,” said Apollo, “then let us say that Hera has done nothing but hate _us._ I don’t relish the thought of what she would do if she took the throne.”

Heron grimaced.

“You said I needed to stop the Daemons to stop Hera trying to kill me. How am I supposed to do that if you’re so sure they’re going to kill me the instant I show up?”

“You have to cut out the root of the problem,” said Apollo. “At their root, these Daemons are not natural. They were not born, nor even created, they-

“Were mortals, tainted by contact with a giant,” cut in Heron, rolling his eyes, “get to the point.”

“If you can destroy-“ started Apollo, and then blinked. “Wait. Where did you...?”

“Agreed,” said Hermes, “it’s not exactly widely known.”

Heron waved a hand in annoyance, “Elias- An old man I knew told me.”

They stared.

“ _And where did_ he _learn it?”_ said Apollo.

Heron groaned, placing a hand across his face. “I don’t know, ‘An old man has his ways,’ that’s what he always said.”

They looked at each other, and there was a moment of silence.

“Well…” Said Apollo, “he certainly must have; he was right. These Daemon’s draw their strength from the body of a giant. If you destroy it, they will be defeated.”

Heron crossed his arms.

“And it’s supposed to be that easy?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” said Hermes.

“Why wasn’t it destroyed when you killed the giant in the first place, if it’s so dangerous?” said Heron, “Why haven’t you destroyed it _now?”_

“Ah. Well, as to your first question,” said Apollo, “the body of a giant can be destroyed easily enough, but they are the blood of a titan; they will never _stay_ destroyed.”

Silence.

“And?” said Heron, “what about the other part?”

“It’s a mortal affair,” said Hermes, shrugging. “Besides, if I ran up to the giant and burned it today, the bet would fall apart, Hera and Father would _both_ be furious with me, you would probably die, and Hera would argue for her victory by dint of foul play. Same goes if anyone else tried, even if they wanted to; Zeus hasn’t exactly put himself in the best position.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nobody knows who you are,” said Apollo, “some think this bet is mere desperation on his part. Hera, on the other hand, has elected an Amazonian Archon as her champion; she has a lifetime of training, and… Well, she’s an Amazonian; strength, and skill in battle run in their blood.”

“Though, don’t tell Ares we said that, yes?” said Hermes, “he’d be altogether too pleased to hear his daughters described that way.”

Heron waved the whole discussion away, “so the Amazonian that was hunting a Daemon is working for Hera, whatever, fine. You’re saying I need to destroy the giant’s body myself, so where is it?”

There was a long silence.

“Well? Are you going to tell me I have to find it myself?”

“No, no. When you go after it, you’ll know exactly where to go,” said Hermes. “But there’s too much at risk for you to go at it unprepared.”

Heron groaned. “Really?”

“Really,” said Apollo. “There’s too much at stake for us to give you anything less than the best chances we can. I think it’s time we find out what you’re really capable of.”

\--

_Healers: Useless. The weak fall. Shouldn’t be coddled and repaired. Proven weakness already, bound to prove it again._

Seraphim, watching the motion of the needle, pushed the thought aside.

There was, after all, a world of difference between a foot soldier and a manticore.

The manticore, for example, would be much harder to replace. The average foot soldier, meanwhile, had an Amazonian shot them through the eye, would have died on the spot. Were such a thing to happen again on a proper battlefield, the manticore would be able to continue fighting, and, what’s more, it would be more deadly than the average foot soldier as it did so.

 _Happen again? Lose_ other _eye? Blind after both eyes gone._

Even blind, it would be ferocious.

She pulled her hand away from the wound, whispering something under her breath.

Seraphim leaned forward slightly, turning his head.

_“-be fine, but this is going to hurt, okay? With a wound like this, we can’t afford to let it grow ill, but the only way to avoid that is going to sting. So just… Brace yourself, and-“_

“It can’t understand human speech,” said Seraphim, leaning back again, and she stiffened.

She didn’t turn around.

“Neither,” she began, picking up a small bundle of herbs, crushing it in her hand, “do small children. But they understand comfort.”

“Fear, then.”

“What about it? _Shh, shh. It’ll be over in a second._ ”

He ignored the bit that had been directed at the manticore.

“I’ve seen you at work before; I spent some span of time in your little town on business of my own. You use that tone to keep your patient still. With a manticore, it becomes ever more important that it doesn’t listen to its instincts and tear you apart.”

That gave her a moment of pause, and she let out a slow breath. “I wouldn’t have expected it to be necessary. You seem to have it very well trained.”

He laughed. “Correct, yet I wonder if you truly believe it. It matters little, of course; it can still kill you in an instant, and until you have broken something to your will yourself, you cannot break yourself of the fear of it.”

“Then do you fear the dead who would not convert?”

\--

She cursed the words the instant they left her mouth; she should have known better, had _trained_ herself to know better. A single poorly placed word meant disaster.

Yet, a second passed, and there was no spear through her back, no sharp command to loose the manticore.

He laughed.

“Of course not. It was my will that they die. They complied.”

Electra forced herself to relax. No death yet, and there was no wisdom in letting fear show; a nervous healer meant a nervous patient, meant a relation lashing out in fear. And if she showed fear, it meant she had done something to fear retaliation for.

If he wanted to ignore it, then far be it from her to force his attention towards it.

The manticore let out a long, slow growl as she slowly spread the paste across the wound.

 _“Yes, I know, I know,”_ she murmured, though it didn’t seem to even respond.

She stared down at the manticore, and, for the moment, found herself with nowhere else to work.

“Is it done?” came the voice from behind her.

She nodded, feeling the trembling in her limbs, now, the jitters of tension relieved.

In spite of everything, she was still alive.

“For… For now,” she said, and began to stand. “It will still need-

She didn’t even have time to finish the sentence.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Electra, in a grand and unexpected surprise, is not dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm assuming nobody got juked by the 'bident through the back' fakeout there, but I thought it'd be fun to throw it in anyway :].

Electra’s cheek was cold and damp; a grey, half-light filtered through her eyelids. She let out a low groan, and tried to push herself to her hands and knees.

“And what, exactly, was that?”

Seraphim’s voice was somewhere between annoyance and disinterest, as he sat, cross-legged, a few feet away from her.

“I-“ She began, the words slurring as she spoke, and… She paused, focused herself. She got to her knees, and wiped the dirt from her face.

“I haven’t slept in a full day,” she said, “and I haven’t eaten in almost as long. Sometimes that means that when you stand…” She gestured, letting the thought finish itself in the air.

“Really,” said Seraphim, “you found the cage to be unacceptable sleeping quarters, then.”

She forced herself to keep an even expression. “I was too worried to sleep, and too hungry. I lost my son and my home in a single night.”

She locked eyes with him for a long, long moment, and his expression didn’t seem to change an iota.

“You’ll get used to it.”

She would have expected the response to be dismissive, yet, oddly, it sounded more like grim certainty.

Seraphim sighed. “As to food…” He shrugged. “We aren’t in the habit of starving new converts.”

He reached to one side, and lifted up a clay cooking pot, which he placed down in front of her with a heavy _thud_. She leaned slightly forward, and, by the color and aroma, came face to face with a thick stew.

She recoiled as a wooden bowl came down.

“Eat,” he said, leaving the bowl balanced on the rim of the pot.

She looked up at him, and part of her suspecting some trick, slowly reached out for the bowl.

There was no response, no recrimination as she picked it up.

She slowly, carefully, scooped out a modest portion.

She retracted the bowl.

There was a long silence, and Seraphim’s eyes seemed to bore into her as she sat there.

“Do you expect me to believe that you can live on _that?_ ”

She felt her neck tense.

“I’ve always learned that it’s polite for a guest not to overtax their host’s hospitality,” she said, maintaining the eye contact, but keeping her voice smooth and steady.

“You aren’t a guest,” said Seraphim, “and I have no use for a convert that can’t get to their feet without falling over.”

“Very well then,” said Electra, and, still maintaining eye contact, slowly dipped the bowl back into the pot.

She slowly pulled the bowl free, and, for a moment, Seraphim glanced down.

He looked back at her, and his expression now seemed legitimately annoyed, head cocking slightly to one side.

Her hand paused, and Electra couldn’t quite keep her expression flat. She slowly reached down, deeper than before, and pulled the bowl back out. It was now quite heavy.

Seraphim glanced down again, and then back to her.

Then, slowly, he seemed to relax.

“Good.”

Electra glanced down, and… The stew, such as it was, seemed to be a thick, heavy mixture of meat and… by the looks of it, onions and beans. It was cold, had probably been sitting in that pot for at least an hour or two, but even in spite of that… _Something about the idea of eating it seemed viscerally wrong; too thick. Too much meat. Too much… Everything. If she ate it all then…_

Then what? Heron wouldn’t go hungry for lacking it, that was certain. And, at the same time…

_She was so hungry._

She took a bite.

\--

_Strange. Worried. Thinks poison. Suspicious. Paranoid._

Seraphim found himself doubting Eurymedon’s assessment; this woman seemed at least wise enough to understand that if he wanted her dead, she would already be dead. That said, she might have expected that the stew would be made with giant-flesh, which might have explained something of it. That didn’t feel quite right either, though.

_Locked eyes. Rare._

Yes, there was that.

Most who hadn’t been converted found his eyes off-putting. That was sensible enough, he supposed; one torn, and both glimmering red, that was usually enough to make someone blink first.

The Amazon Archon, of course, hadn’t seemed to care, but then, not being frightened by such things was her business. _This_ woman, though…

_Amazon exile?_

He’d heard stranger ideas. Still, it seemed like a stretch.

And _that_ was strange…

She’d passed out from hunger, had clearly _been_ hungry for a long time; Seraphim was well familiar with what the first taste of food was like after a long time without it; yet she was emptying the bowl slowly, managing to look halfway dignified in the process.

_A lot of thought for one woman. Strange, not important._

And what _else_ was he supposed to be thinking about? Their marching plan was set, the Amazon could do with a little longer in solitude before another interrogation, and Lykos was drilling the troops.

_Training, perhaps._

And had Eurymedon ever trained?

_…_

_Mortals. Different from giants._

Seraphim smirked at momentary hesitation.

“Now,” he said, “what, _exactly,_ where you saying about it still needing something?”

She paused, finished her mouthful, and took a breath.

“The skin to one side of the wound has split,” she began, “I’ve sewn that closed, and the worst of the risk to the eye itself should be properly managed, at this point. It’s still too early to close the eye permanently, though. Do it too early, and the inside will be at risk from the wounds on the outside. You wouldn’t see the danger until it was too late. In the meantime, until the wound heals, it will need to be checked, retreated.”

“How often.”

“Daily, at least.”

He nodded, silently. “Then finish eating, and when you’re back in the cage, _sleep._ Do you understand?”

She swallowed heavily, and nodded.

He tilted his head, glared.

She hesitated, and then nodded again. He could just catch the nerves behind the motion, but her voice was steady.

“I understand.”


End file.
